


All of Them Wolves

by thegoodreverend



Series: Strange Men South of Colter [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption, Red Dead Redemption (Video Games), Red Dead Redemption 2
Genre: AU, Bisexual Arthur Morgan, Bisexual John Marston, M/M, Multi, SLOW BURN y'all, one good boy and one screaming raccoon trying to get out of that outlaw life, rancher ot3 au is the fandom hill i will die on, the trapper au nobody asked for, there's some abigail/john/arthur mostly just mentioned, touch-starved arthur, trapper!arthur morgan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-23 05:23:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17074208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoodreverend/pseuds/thegoodreverend
Summary: Arthur Callahan has left a name and a lifetime behind him. He's content with a life of solitude in the foothills north of Big Valley. Things are simple, and safer than his time riding with Dutch van der Linde.Until one day, they aren't.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. Again, unbeta'd, mostly written at 4AM, in this fandom we die like men.  
> (That said, the rest of this 20k word monster is written and I'm just reading through it still to make sure it at least sort of makes sense.)

Arthur knew something was wrong before he even set foot on his property. A mile back, he had passed a horse on the side of the road – it was a bony nag without much time time in its natural life by the looks of it, but had been run to death. Then there were unnatural noises which he could hear from the road: he loud and panicked sounds of somebody searching through his kitchen. A rasping voice cursing. When he rode up to the cabin, he saw the chickens had all gathered on one side of their enclosure, clucking the way they did when they had been startled. His horse shied away skittishly from the cabin as another loud crash came. He shushed her, patting her neck until she seemed to calm, and then swung his leg over the saddle. Sighing on the way up to the cabin, he checked to make sure his revolver was fully loaded. Just that kind of day.

His initial look inside was slow and cautious, in case the intruder had heard him coming and was waiting ready to shoot, although as it was he went unnoticed. The stranger – a man – was too preoccupied looking for food. Arthur imagined it was food, anyway. Had it been gold he would have hit the chest by his bed first, or stolen any of the fine furs Arthur hadn’t taken to sell yet. He couldn’t figure what else it could be with how this man was rifling through drawers, and he was certainly skinny enough to suggest he hadn’t had a full meal in a while. Dark hair hung lank and disheveled, his clothes were ragged and stained and he favored his left leg – this man was exhausted and had nothing to lose if push came to shove. A dangerous combination. Arthur kept his revolver leveled, and cleared his throat loudly.

The intruder jumped and spun, hand immediately going for his hip like a gun was there. As if remembering he was unarmed, he froze completely when Arthur cocked his revolver and then let his hands fall to his sides. He curled his lip, baring his teeth and twisting the large scars across his face.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he growled, balling his fists. “Do it. Shoot me.”

Arthur raised his brow. “I’m thinkin’ on it. First I’m thinkin’ on how you come to be raised the kinda fella thinks it’s appropriate to go into folks’ homes out in the middle of nowhere and rifle through all their things.”

“I don’t give two shits what you’re thinkin’, asshole.”

“I’m the asshole? Look, pal, you broke into _my_ house - how about you shut the hell up, how’s that sound to you? ‘Cause it sounds great to me.”

The stranger shut his mouth, and Arthur kept his aim steady while he considered what to do. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the starving and wounded animals he’d found in pit-traps. Arthur himself didn’t use them – he found them cruel, and was of the opinion that if you couldn’t bring big and dangerous game down with one shot to the head you shouldn’t be hunting big and dangerous game – but he had seen them out in Roanoke Ridge in abundance. One in particular stood out in his memory, and he couldn’t help but think of it staring at this man; a wolf, ragged and bone-thin with a broken leg and no chance at surviving, with no value in its damaged hide. A waste of life and death. Whether it had been abandoned by its pack or it was the sole survivor, Arthur couldn’t tell - he had tried to provide it a way out of the pit, and the wolf had just stared and growled, lashing out if he got too close. Baring its teeth in a last-ditch effort to hold its ground. In fear. Arthur had seen enough cornered animals on the verge of death to realize that was all that was left for it, and had ended its misery as quickly as he could after that. Despite the similarities, he wasn’t sure this man was in quite the same position.

As deeply as he was thinking, he didn’t fail to notice the man’s eyes darting to the knife on his table. Yes, Arthur thought. Just like the wolf in the pit. A wild animal fighting for survival. The stranger moved quickly, despite his obviously injured leg – he grabbed the knife and leapt over the table in a fluid motion, and it was fast enough for Arthur to feel quietly impressed. Not enough for him to be caught off guard, though. He side-stepped calmly and brought the hilt of his gun down across the stranger’s head with a crack, and the stranger crashed to the ground. Arthur sighed and shook his head, putting his gun back in the holster before crouching down to check the man for a pulse.

“Don’t know if you’d agree, but you are a lucky son of a bitch,” he grumbled, feeling a rhythmic beat against his fingers. He pulled his hand back from his neck and stood, stepping over the intruder on his way to the door. He’d need to restrain the stranger which would take time, and the horse would appreciate all the tack and supplies removed from her back first. He called out to the unconscious man over his shoulder. “You stay right there. I’ll deal with you when I get back.”

He’d left the man on the ground while he put his horse in the lean-to that served as a stable, unsaddled and brushed and fed her. Then he brought his two month’s worth of supplies into the cabin and refilled the previously empty kitchen cabinets, cleaning up the intruder’s mess as he went. He pumped water from his well and brought it inside, filling his wash bin and the tub by the sink. After he was done, he hauled the shockingly light intruder up off the floor and moved him over to his bed.

The first thing he did was handcuff him to a hook anchored in his wall. The hook usually held his traps, and the restraints were left over from days long past. Arthur had once found they’d come in handy and figured it couldn’t hurt to keep them considering the kinds of folks you could run into out in the hills. Some men were just too good at getting out of rope. Iron, though, was a little harder. Unless you were small – Arthur had seen smaller men slip right out of them just by bending their thumbs right. As thin and light as this man was, though, he was by no means small. His hands were as large as Arthur’s, and looked awkward attached to his thin wrists.

Arthur laid the man out on the cot, grabbed a cloth, dunked it in the wash bin, and went about making sure the man wouldn’t die from an infected cut. The gash on his forehead from Arthur’s revolver looked worse than it was, and once the swelling went down it would heal up fine without stitching. He scrubbed the blood that had congealed on the man’s face, and figured what the hell – might as well get the rest of his face clean. Get a good look at what he was dealing with. The cloth caught on stubble and revealed more scars. The two most prominent were gashes in his cheek that occupied most of the right side of his face. An animal had made them, and they stretched from the corner of his jaw up across the bridge of his nose. Arthur couldn’t say it hurt his looks, although it certainly made him look older. As it turned out he couldn’t have been much older than Arthur had when he’d first built the cabin a little over a decade ago. All things considered, he was a rugged sort of handsome, if not a little wiry and scrappy. Strong sharp jaw, high cheekbones -

He sat back straight and shook his head. Inappropriate. That was the kind of thing he was supposed to be avoiding, anything that could get him in trouble with authorities – dubious strangers, unnatural inclinations, men with scars on the run. Suddenly he felt angry. At himself, at the stranger, at the whole damn situation. This man comes into his home, his _purposefully remote home_ , with intent to steal from him, and there Arthur sits thinking unnatural thoughts about him. And who knew what he was running from – clearly something big, to have him that desperate looking. The whole thing was wrong. Arthur grunted and chucked the cloth into the corner, and when he checked the rest of the intruder for injuries he did it quickly and roughly. He found no stiff patches of bloodied cloth he wasn’t already aware of, and so he went about the next task. The man’s leg was shot in the thigh and the calf, and while the bullets had passed clean through the wounds were not pretty and Arthur suspected there might be bone damage. Without looking at the man’s face again, he removed his boots, ripped his pant leg up to the hip, and cleaned the wounds. Wrapped them with the bandages he kept under the bed, and to be safe, bound his lower leg to a makeshift splint. It wasn’t great – he wasn’t a doctor. It was just the bare minimum. Arthur resolutely did not look at the intruder’s face as he left the cabin, thinking to himself that if the leg got worse he’d have to go to Hanging Dog Ranch for help.

The walk to the nag was helpful. Arthur walked with his rifle strapped across his back and took his time, letting the fifteen minute walk stretch to half an hour, and it was just enough to calm him down. The rain from the previous day had breathed life into the dry border of the forest and the wildflowers were in bloom. Birds sang. Deer moved through the forest. It was a grounding experience – he didn’t bother thinking about his next steps, only what he saw. He would think about what he’d do with the intruder when he woke later.

The nag was exactly where he’d last seen it. The saddle wasn’t worth taking, old and cheap as it was, and the bags were a waste of time. Arthur had hoped they’d hold some clue about the intruder, but rifling through them he realized the nag was probably stolen. He found twenty five cents, an apple, a cheap broken watch, and a photo of a man and a woman. The man was clearly not the intruder. Arthur sighed and stood with his hands on his hips, straightening just in time to catch movement in the distance.

Lawmen, riding up the hill. Arthur bit back a sour expression, a bad taste in his mouth, and pulled a cigarette from the case in his pocket. Struck the match on his boot.

“So, it’s like that,” he mumbled, holding up a hand as the men approached. He recognized the sheriff from Strawberry. The other four rode too well and with too much confidence to be deputized townsfolk, and he assumed they were more likely rangers. Possibly bounty hunters.

“Callahan,” the sheriff called, returning his wave. Arthur weighed the photo and watch in his hand, and walked away from the nag.

“Sheriff Roscoe,” Arthur nodded. The posse slowed and stopped before him.

“Good day for horse hunting?” Roscoe asked. Roscoe had a habit of making bad jokes around him – he wasn’t a stupid man. He could tell Arthur didn’t particularly care for him, and he didn’t know how else to get on his good side other than attempts at humor. Arthur scoffed a little.

“I imagine you’re lookin’ for whatever man was on that poor beast.”

“You’d imagine correctly.”

Arthur scratched the back of his neck. “I only just got back so can’t say I seen much, but looked like somebody’d been in my place lookin’ for supplies. Didn’t find nothin’, since I didn’t have nothin’. Trail went northwest. Y’all are about twelve hours behind, judgin’ by the state of this animal, might have a chance to catch up before the rain hits again.”

Roscoe nodded. “Thank you kindly, Mr. Callahan. You just keep your eye out for strangers. Let us know if you see anybody.”

“Strangers ain’t too uncommon. Got a description?”

“Three folks it might be. We got descriptions and names on two of ‘em, but the third’s new to us. Micah Bell and Dutch van der Linde are-”

“I am familiar with their reputations,” Arthur said. He kept his jaw firm, and through the sudden sensation of panic and shock he had the good sense to hope he hadn’t spoken too abruptly. He was more than familiar with their reputations. “Heard enough stories, back in the day.”

“Well, they had a third man with ‘em. Musta been trynna start up that old posse they had a while back, if you remember that. Hit up a train just outside of Strawberry, took a lotta money, shot a lotta men. What you got there?”

Arthur jumped a little, and forgot he had been holding anything. He stretched out his hand, and Roscoe took the photo and the watch. He nodded. “Sure the owner’ll be glad to have these back, even if there ain’t good news about the animal. Thanks again for the help, Mr. Callahan.”

Roscoe led his posse up the road as Arthur gave him a brief nod. He waited until they were well out of sight, walked a small distance from the horse, and leaned against the first tree he could find. The effort it took to breathe through the sudden sense of panic was overwhelming, and he waited for the feeling to return to his legs before he started back to the cabin. He’d had ten good years without having to hear those names.

 

* * *

 

It took another few hours for the man to wake up. There’d been no sign of wakefulness when he’d gotten back, even as Arthur had grumbled at him about how lucky was that he liked the law even less than he liked thieves. It certainly had nothing to do with the fact that he assumed Milton knew Dutch van der Linde, and Arthur was certainly not planning on keeping him around and out of the hands of the law so he could figure out what, exactly, Dutch was up to. Arthur told himself lies and started on dinner, and the noises and smell of cooking filled the cabin, and the stranger stayed asleep. He was on the verge of being concerned – it was either exhaustion or brain damage, keeping him out cold that long – when he heard a groan.

“Christ almighty,” the groan went, and it was punctuated by the metallic clink of the handcuffs being tried. Arthur didn’t bother turning around.

“’Bout time you woke up,” he said.

“What is this?”

“Way I figure it, don’t make much sense to leave a man who tried to stab you unrestrained. Especially not knowin’ when he’s gonna be up.”

“Who the fuck _are you_?”

Arthur barked a laugh, and finally looked over his shoulder to see the intruder staring at him incredulously, propped up on his elbow. He shook his head, and went back to preparing two bowls. Back to focusing on the task at hand – find out who the man is, learn what he knows, find out what the risk is. Only way to do that, Arthur reminded himself, was to remain calm and keep the stranger feeling like he was safe. “You broke into the wrong cabin, son.”

When he offered the stranger stew, it was looked at suspiciously. Arthur couldn’t say he blamed him. He still looked confused and defensive, and that wasn’t too hard to understand. He breaks into a stranger’s house – a stranger who clearly has a mass of weapons, furs and traps hanging from his walls, weather-hardened – and he isn’t shot, he’s chained to a wall, doctored, and offered food. A lot of mixed signals. Arthur took a spoonful of the soup to demonstrate good faith, and as soon as the spoon hit his lips the bowl was yanked from his grip. The stranger tipped it back and downed it immediately.

Arthur chuckled, sitting back in a chair and eating his dinner at a more appropriate pace. “There’s more, once you settle with that. You vomit in my bed I’m gonna flag down the law.”

The stranger choked on the last dregs of stew and looked at him, dropping the bowl to his lap in preference of wiping his mouth on the back of his hand.

“What’s your name?”

“Joh- Jim. Jim Milton,” he answered, clearing his throat. Arthur watched his eyes dart towards the door ever so briefly.

“John-Jim, huh.”

“I go by Jim. Trynna start goin’ by Jim, I mean.”

“Hm,” Arthur grunted, and looked down at his bowl. Milton was a bad liar. Arthur thought about his next steps. “Why you break into my house, Jim Milton?”

“Starvin’,” Jim offered. “My horse died on the road, and I – I was hungry.”

“Weren’t no kit on that nag. What you doin’ out in the wild with no gear? No guns?”

“I’m a little down on my luck, If you didn’t notice.”

“All things considered, you look pretty lucky to me. Ain’t dead yet when by all rights you oughta be,” Arthur raised his brow and stood. Jim Milton flinched like he thought he was about to be hit, and didn’t relax until he realized Arthur was only getting him a cup of water. Arthur continued, pretending he didn’t notice as he handed over the cup. “I coulda shot you dead when I came in the house. Coulda died of starvation. Coulda died after I cracked you on the head. I’d apologize for that, except you seemed intent on murderin’ me.”

Milton looked down at the cup and drank without comment. Arthur sat back in the chair with a sigh, and picked up his dinner again. He’d need a plan, and to make a good one he needed to be honest with himself: this was happening because his gut told him to hold on to Jim Milton. He didn’t know if it was just coincidence or something more sinister that brought Dutch and Micah into his neck of the woods after so long, if they knew he was there or what name he went by now. He didn’t know why, if Milton had been running with them, he’d found the man rummaging through his kitchen half-starved and desperate and without his gang. If Dutch was roaming the wild looking for him or Jim, he needed to know about it, he needed to know why, and he needed to know where Milton stood with Dutch. He couldn’t just ask about everything, much as he wanted to. If Milton was still friendly with Dutch, it was possible he knew Arthur’s old name and who knew what Dutch had said about him – he’d be putting himself in danger, and he might not get any details. He knew if he was in Milton’s position and somebody abruptly asked him about his criminal history, he’d spook.

And if Milton didn’t exactly stand with Dutch? Well. Maybe Arthur could help. Arthur had had help, in a way, and it had been important to his getting out. An old and well-loved voice echoed through his head. _No good deed goes unpunished, Arthur, my boy_.

Of course, maybe Milton didn’t know Dutch at all. Maybe he wasn’t involved in that train robbery. And, Arthur thought, pig could go flying right past his front door.

“Now, I gotta figure out what I’m gonna do with you.”

“Let me go,” Milton suggested.

Arthur laughed at his oddly hopeful tone. “You itchin’ to freeze to death out there? Make some grizzly’s dinner? I ain’t givin’ you a ride back to civilization, so unless you think you can cut it on your own with a busted leg...”

“What, you’re gonna keep me chained to the wall?”

Arthur leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Maybe. Way I see it, I got two options. You done me wrong, and you can either pay me back for it, or I can turn you in to the law. Can’t figure a man who broke in to my home how you did and came after me with a knife ain’t got some kinda price on his head.”

“I ain’t got money to pay you with, friend.”

“No, didn’t figure you do. But you got hands, and I got work needs doin’.”

Jim Milton laughed, incredulous. “You want me doin’ house chores like some woman?”

“’Til your leg’s all healed up,” Arthur said. He kept his mouth straight and firm. As funny as Milton’s reaction was, as if housework was beneath him, he preferred him moderately scared. “And then I want you doin’ farm work. I’m bringin’ in livestock over the next few weeks. Need a stable built.”

“And then you’ll let me go. Without word to the law.”

Arthur nodded. Jim looked at the now empty bowl and cup, and then back at him.

“Don’t seem like I got much other choice.”

“Good decision,” Arthur said, and he stood to take dishes to the sink.

“You gonna let me off this wall, at least?”

“Ha! And let you slit my throat at night? We ain’t that far along in our friendship yet, Jim Milton. You just sit there and rest up, and I’ll decide when I’m comfortable lettin’ you go.”

Arthur expected anger. Maybe sarcasm. Something incredulous, at least. Instead, Jim Milton grunted. “Fair enough. What’s your name, then?”

Arthur looked him over, considering his reaction. Jim was watching him expectantly, looking tired and vaguely annoyed. Arthur thought the lines between his eyes that made him look mad might just be a part of his natural expression. He grabbed his coat and put it on, reaching for his rifle. “Arthur Callahan.”

Jim didn’t question his name, because Arthur didn’t hesitate. He was a much better liar. “Where you goin’?”

“Work,” Arthur answered, grabbing cover scent lotion from his shelf. He had traps to check. Tomorrow’s dinner to catch. “Some of us make a livin’ legally.”

“’Least I don’t chain up strange folk on my wall,” Jim scoffed. Arthur couldn’t help laughing.

“That’s what you do to criminals, Mr. Milton. Now, you stay there and rest up. I’ll get you more food when I’m back,” he said, looking back at Jim before he stepped out. Receiving no response but a grunt, Arthur left and closed the door behind him.


	2. Chapter 2

“Dutch seem… I dunno. Wrong to you? Recently?” 

Hosea sighed  and looked so much older in that moment , and for a moment Arthur thought he wouldn’t answer his question and shame threatened to redden his face. Arthur took long and calming drags from his cigarette, and told himself that Hosea only looked tired because he was still mourning Bessie. The answer came after deep consideration, the space occupied only by the sound of the fire and distant chatter. 

“Dutch has always had an easily provoked imagination,” Hosea told him, choosing his words carefully. “As long as the voice he’s taken most with is a good one, it works out fine. But when it ain’t… hell, I won’t pretend to know. I never seen him taken with the wrong voice before now.”

Arthur didn’t know if that made him feel better. On the one hand, he felt saner knowing Hosea was just as concerned about Dutch’s state of mind as he was. On the other, his concern being validated meant it wasn’t just in his head. He turned his attention away from Hosea across the camp, to where Dutch and Micah were talking. 

Micah Bell wasn’t much older than Arthur, but he’d been with the gang for less time. Arthur had just crossed twenty-six (or twenty-five, depending on if it was him or Hosea giving the information) and he’d been riding with the two men he considered to be as good as family for at least a decade. There were others who came and went, but mostly it was the three of them, and when it was just them it was perfect.  But then  Micah had shown up  and hadn’t left, and  by staying  had turned everything to hell. He had no regard for human life or caution, occupied only by greed and the knowledge he had to maintain as much of Dutch’s good grace as possible.  And he never really told Dutch  _no_ , which meant Dutch was more inclined to want him around. The longer Micah stayed, and the longer Arthur tried to tell Dutch he wasn’t any good, the more Dutch listened to Micah’s ideas. Jobs were getting sloppy. Bill had been killed a few months ago on one – casualties came with the territory, but they shouldn’t be as common as they were beginning to feel. Arthur felt like he was losing count of the friends he’d seen die on botched jobs. 

He’d tried to talk sense into Dutch, but Micah accused him of jealousy, and the idea had planted itself in Dutch’s mind. Now there was no winning. He could only watch as Dutch got more and more wrapped up in Micah’s machinations. 

“I got a bad feeling about this next job,” Hosea told him. Arthur looked back at him. 

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he lied. When he was younger, he had been a bad liar, and Hosea smiled. 

“Arthur, my boy. I need you to promise me something.” 

“What’s that?”

“If this goes bad – if the job goes south and something happens – you gotta run. You gotta leave this mess behind you, and don’t look back. Go somewhere we ain’t been so you aren’t recognized and keep yourself safe, away from this madness. Make a life for yourself. A real one. Something stable.”

“Ain’t much of a family man, Hosea.”

“Bullshit. Promise me.”

Arthur felt lost for words, looking at the expression that had come over Hosea’s face. A strange and foreign mix of desperation and worry, and he couldn’t find it in him to say no. He couldn’t find it in him to say yes, either – his throat felt tight, like he might stop breathing.  Joking again wasn’t an option. So he just nodded, and dropped the cigarette to the ground to stomp it out. Beside him, Hosea released a sigh of relief.

“You know, Arthur. I always considered you my son.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do better for you.”

Arthur looked at him and felt like he’d been slapped. “ You  _saved_ me. You’re the only one who ever has. That’s good enough for me.” 

Hosea smiled, and met his gaze. “My brave boy. You really are as dumb as you look.” 

“Mean old man,” Arthur scoffed, trying to cover from the wave of emotion and vulnerability. When the man he’d always thought of as his father reached out to pat Arthur’s shoulder, it occurred to him suddenly that Hosea was dead. 

He started awake, lim b s making scuffing noises on the floor of his cabin. Above him, Jim Milton snored lightly in his cot, and the chains of the cuffs rattled as he shifted  in his sleep. Arthur caught his breath and relaxed as much as he could against the bedroll he was sleeping on, and stared up at the darkened ceiling. Outside the forest went about its business – squirrels and birds, possums and raccoons all rustling the underbrush, the wind playing through the branches, the occasional cry of a coyote. The sound of a dying rabbit far in the distance. Arthur closed his eyes and did his best to shake off the feeling of Hosea’s hand on his shoulder. Eventually sleep must have taken him, because the next thing he knew a very warm and very real hand was imitating the sensation, albeit much more forcefully. 

“Hey. Hey, Callahan.” 

Arthur grunted, swatting at the fingers jabbing at his shoulder. He pried his eyes open against the light of the morning and grunted. “What?”

“I gotta piss.”

Sighing, Arthur dragged his hands over his face and then got himself up. He stretched and scratched at his side as he walked over to his shelf to grab the keys and tried to ignore the stiffness in his back. Half expecting Milton to reach out and try to strangle him now that he was within arms’ reach of his way out, Arthur readied himself for a blow as he reached across the cot to unlock the chains. The blow didn’t come. Milton only watched him carefully. 

“Think you can move that leg?” Arthur asked, standing back to let the man stretch out his arm. No doubt it was in a worse state than Arthur’s back, chained up like it had been. 

“More or less. Might have a hard time puttin’ weight on it,” Milton looked up at him, flexing his fingers. 

Offering his hand, Arthur caught himself thinking again on the finer qualities of Milton’s face and had to stop himself. He blamed how tired he was and tightened his grip on Milton’s bicep to the point it must have been painful, as if it was his fault  Arthur was having those thoughts at all. Milton said nothing about the grip, accepting Arthur’s help and wincing when he got up to his feet. 

“Don’t know how the hell I made it up here,” Milton said, cursing as he looped an arm over Arthur’s shoulders. Arthur let him, offering no further assistance but taking his weight easily. Milton didn’t appear to need an arm bracing his back, and if Arthur was so focused on the fact that as it turned out they were about the same height he didn’t want to know what his mind would do once his hand was pressed against Milton’s side. He shook the thoughts away again and walked them to the back door. 

“Adrenaline does a lot for a man,” Arthur grunted. “Think it’s broken?”

“Don’t feel broken. Just feels hot’n swollen.”

“Well. If it keeps feelin’ hot after today, you tell me. Don’t need to get stuck with no one-legged outlaw.”

Milton scoffed, and once they were down the steps he leaned against the cabin instead of Arthur and hobbled away to relieve himself. “Think you might consider  _not_ chainin’ me up when we get back inside?”

“No,” Arthur grunted, wishing he’d thought to grab his cigarettes. 

“I understand your worry, y’know. Hell, I’d be worried too, I reckon. But, I mean – I can’t do much on this leg,” Milton said, and Arthur thought he was definitely a son of Dutch. It wasn’t the vocabulary, or even the argument. Just the confidence it was spoken with, the air of familiarity. “And I still can’t feel most of that arm. Can’t be good keepin’ it pinned up like that.” 

Milton finished, and turned back. Arthur looked over at him as he hobbled his way back, and  Milton lowered his voice. 

“And since you got me dead to rights, I don’t mind tellin’ you it ain’t just the law I’m hopin’ to avoid.”

“Anybody I oughta be worried about?” Arthur turned to face him, leaning against the side of the cabin himself and strangely relieved to know he hadn’t been wrong in assuming Milton was involved with Dutch.

“Not if they don’t know I’m here,” he said, and stopped about a foot away from Arthur, leaning heavily on the side of the cabin. “I can’t run. I got good reason to stay hidden. And I ain’t in the habit of killin’ people who ain’t wearin’ a badge or dressed up like an O’Driscoll. And besides, if I do run, I’m sure you could find me faster than most anybody else.”

Arthur recognized the look in Milton’s eyes, looking straight at him with youthful determination, like he could bend the world to his will despite how wild his will was. Arthur had felt that way once. The look held no malice – hell, he was such a bad liar Arthur didn’t doubt he believed every word he said. Dutch tended to attract the idealistic just like he did the nihilistically violent.  If Milton was running from the law and from Dutch, he was involved in that robbery, and maybe he had something Dutch wanted. Maybe, just like Arthur had, he knew what a jealous and vengeful man Dutch could be when Micah had his ear. He needed help, and Arthur  knew looking at those determined brown eyes that had to give it to him and  try to  keep his head as low as possible at the same time. He sighed, and moved a hand over his face again,  and thought he was pretty much fucked . He hadn’t felt so tired for a long time. 

Hosea would be proud of him, at least.

“We’ll give it a go. Before you start lookin’ around, ain’t nothin’ for you to steal. Don’t keep my valuables where I live.”

“I don’t steal from friends, neither.”

“We friends now?”

Milton shrugged awkwardly. “Good as, I reckon.”

Arthur grunted, and gestured for Milton to put his arm around his shoulders again so they could go back inside. 

Despite his better judgment, Arthur left Milton unchained and free to roam. There were no weapons for him to use – Arthur took them all with him and Milton said nothing about it, although he’d watched with a brief look of concern. No doubt thinking about what would happen if people came in who weren’t Arthur. He was told to take care of the dishes in the sink, and wash himself while he was at it. Arthur grunted that he smelled like shit on the way out the door. 

Hanging Dog Ranch was  slightly less than a  half hour’s leisurely ride away  and  had been there for as long as the valley had existed as far as Arthur knew, occupied by a half dozen different residents in the past decade alone. A gang had briefly claimed ownership, as had a German immigrant and his family, and four other men he hadn’t cared to know. As it was, it was owned by a widow named Sadie Adler  who took no flack at any time, and occupied by her  and a  ragtag group of misfits.  The time these folks spent there varied – wayward or abused women on the run from bad men, poor families out from the east trying to make a new name for themselves in the west, strangers who offered no information about themselves at all but radiated the sensation of  _penitent ex-outlaw_ , all drifting in and out. Settling for weeks at a time, or months, or only days. Among the permanent residents were Charles Smith, Tilly Jackson, and Lenny Summers. Arthur got the impression that each of them would be able to identify with Arthur’s own stories, if he’d felt safe enough to tell them. Even Sadie, who didn’t seem like she had a criminal bone in her body, as tough as each of those bones were.

While Arthur had spent a considerable amount of time picking the location  he eventually moved to because nobody new his name, he had opted to use a fake surname and keep to himself as much as he could.  Using his and Hosea’s cut from the very last job they pulled, h e bought the property surrounding his cabin, stretching down into the valley, because it was prime ranching land and he didn’t want anybody happening to settle in close to him. It was safer to be alone – between the threat of the law finding out who he was, and the idea that Dutch might get it in his jealous mind to come after him, it didn’t seem like a risk he should take. He avoided women in town despite how lovely they looked. He avoided the men too, even if he felt he might be reading their unspoken signals to him correctly. He avoided Hanging Dog Ranch until he could no longer. 

The gunshots had carried up the valley and into the mountains, and he had tried to ignore them. Tried being the operative word – there w ere too many shots for it to be ranchers firing at wolves. Gunfire was being returned. Arthur had seen the widow ride in when she bought the ranch, and he let an image of her and her little family  shot to death by cattle thieves settle in his mind. It took about thirty seconds before he decided that he didn’t much care for it, and he’d grabbed his guns and rode down the side of the mountain to help. He’d found them standing their ground against a gang he did not recognize, quick to realize they would have been fine without him but glad he could lend a hand. Sadie had called him a fool for riding up behind their enemies without any cover where any stray bullet could find a home in him, and had shook his hand and introduced herself properly, and that had been that. She’d been with Tilly and a woman who called herself Mary-Beth at the time, and Lenny had shown up about two years later. Charles came and went as he pleased. 

He’d had taken to them immediately. 

None of them asked him any questions about his past, and he didn’t ask any about theirs, but they laughed with him at the occasional dinner  and spoke to him fondly . He helped with the sheep and cows and horses, and traded furs for  food  and supplies. Rode with them in to town. Felt strangely safer knowing that he had friends close by. 

That morning Arthur left Jim Milton at home so he could bring Sadie a bearskin – a gift, he insisted, although he knew she’d pay him back with his weight in drink and dinner over the course of the next year. She saw him coming in from her spot on the porch where she sat with Charles, and stood up with a crooked grin. 

“Mr. Callahan,” she said, walking up to the steps. “Well, look at that. Trynna butter me up so you get a better price on those cattle you keep talkin’ about?” 

“You know me, Mrs. Adler,” Arthur chuckled, swinging his leg off his horse. “A regular charmer.”

“You said it, not me. Damn, Arthur. That is somethin’.”

Sadie watched him untie the hide from the back of his horse and haul it over his shoulder. “Where you want it?”

“Just inside there, we’ll figure it out. Speakin’ of livestock, I still got your goats. When you comin’ to take those little monsters off my hands?” 

“Soon as I build a better shelter,” he grunted, hauling the skin up the steps. Sadie gave him a wide berth. 

“Well, it’s your choice. You paid for ‘em. Maybe we oughta help you get that thing built, you been talkin’ about it so long.”

“I’ll get to it,” Arthur shook his head, and set the skin down just inside the front door.

“It’s okay to accept help, you know.”

“If I needed it, I would.”

Tilly heard the noise, and stuck her head out to investigate, grinning broadly when she saw him. He tipped his hat at her. “Miss Tilly.”

“Arthur,” Tilly said, walking quickly down the hall to embrace him. Arthur smiled fondly and patted her back. “I was beginning to think all that rain washed you away.”

“Almost.”

“You want some coffee? We just got some made,” she said, pulling away. Arthur thought about declining, imagining Milton rummaging around the cabin. 

“Stay, Arthur,” Sadie said. “It really has been a while.”

L ooking between them, he knew he stood no chance.  “Sure.” 

Tilly grinned and walked back to the kitchen, and Sadie gave him a soft smile. She patted his shoulder as  she passed. “I’m gettin’ you breakfast.”

“You don’t need to do that.”

“You fed yourself this morning?”

Arthur opened his mouth, before realizing there was no point. Sadie had already disappeared into the kitchen, and left him standing in the hall. Shaking his head a little, he walked back out to the porch and sat down next to Charles, who handed him a cigarette silently. 

“Good to see you again, Charles,” Arthur said, leaning in for him to light it. 

“You too, Arthur.” 

“Where’d Lenny run off to?”

“Strawberry, went to help the doctor there. Guess some madness happened a couple days ago. I just got in last night, don’t know much about it.”

Arthur grunted. “Heard about that. Train robbery. Bad business.”

“Bad business indeed,” Sadie emerged from the house, holding out a plate of eggs and bacon at Arthur, who took it from her without complaint. Tilly followed and sat on his other side on the bench handing him coffee. “Fourteen men dead, can you believe. Couple of lawmen and private guns, but mostly just innocent folks on the train. More wounded by the sound of it.” 

“Private guns?” Arthur asked. 

“Some bigshot banker. Roscoe came by yesterday, said they made off with quite the haul. He thinks they split up, though maybe not with purpose as far as all parties were concerned.”

“That so?”

“Well. _I_ think that. He said three of ‘em made it out alive, and went east and made camp. Two of ‘em kept going east, and the other went _back_ west, dropped south, switched out horses, and then moved north up our way. Don’t sound right to me.” 

“Can’t say it sounds right to me, neither,” Arthur agreed. He could think of only one reason why he would make a move like that, and tried to think of a good place south of Big Valley to hide a large sum of money. What he tried not to think about was how intensely Dutch and Micah must be looking for it, if Milton had indeed made off with their haul. 

“Dutch van der Linde, out here robbin’ trains like it’s 1880,” Sadie sighed, shaking her head. Arthur fought panic that somehow Sadie _knew_ building in his gut, and raised his eyes calmly. She wasn’t looking at him as she continued. “Been a while since I heard that name.”

“I don’t think I ever have,” Tilly said. Arthur had finished his food and was drinking now, and she’d occupied his free arm by looping hers around his. He wasn’t sure when that had started – Tilly liked to touch him. It was affectionate, but nothing beyond that. She’d just taken the habit up one day, and Arthur couldn’t say he really minded it. He spent a lot of time alone.

“You might be too young,” Charles said. “He ran a big gang years ago. Used to be you’d hear about him pretty often. Trains, banks. They wrote about him like he was Robin Hood when he first started out.” 

“Just a greedy man with a gun and an attitude to make desperate men follow,” Sadie rolled her eyes. “That kinda thing always goes south. Can’t remember last time I heard about ‘em in the papers, exactly. Some big shootout somewhere, musta been near a dozen years ago.” 

“Robbed a bank in Saint Denis, I believe,” Arthur grunted into his coffee. 

“Sounds about right. Faded off into the distance like most of ‘em do. I’m sure he attempted some smaller jobs with whoever was left. Didn’t have the good sense to stay that way, gotta come out here and murder folks for a little money,” Sadie sighed. “Came out this way to get away from that kinda nonsense. Hope it don’t keep up.” 

“It’s the west,” Charles said. “That kind of nonsense is all that happens.”

“Maybe so.” 

S adie’s name was called from the stables, and she looked over to see a ranch hand waving her down. “Well, shit. Charles, you wanna come with me? Somebody comes up to the house like that this early in the morning, normally means I got a mess  to clean up and a fool to scold.”

“Of course. I do like watching you scold fools.”

“I’ll see you later, Arthur,” Sadie grinned and offered him a wave, and Charles nodded, and then they were gone. Arthur downed the rest of his coffee, and Tilly tightened her grip on his arm. 

“You okay, big man?” 

He looked down at her, and found he was unable to m eet her gaze. Tilly was sweet, and he felt like he was quickly losing a grasp on what  little of a  life he’d built for himself and if he looked at her too long she might make him feel like he needed to get it off his chest.  It was just panic. Panic, and a past she didn’t need to hear about.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just - you ever feel like every problem you ever left behind you’s just waitin’ for the right chance to catch up?”

“All the time,” Tilly said, and rested her head briefly against his shoulder before standing and taking the empty dishes. “You be well, Arthur Callahan. And you remember you got friends here.” 

“I will, Miss Tilly, thank you. I’ll bring you somethin’ nice next time.”

“Don’t bring me no bear. Can’t say I’d mind fox, though,” Tilly smiled, and went back inside. Arthur exhaled slowly, and gave himself a few moments to stare at the valley before flicking his long-dead cigarette off the porch and heading back home. 


	3. Chapter 3

Despite what most people seemed to think, John Marston was not an idiot. He was just bad at talking about things sometimes, and especially terrible at lying blatantly. Running cons with the gang was one thing, but lying to somebody’s face about his own situation was hard for him – he got nervous. But if he never did it blatantly, he was actually very good. It was how he and Abigail had plotted so long to get away: nobody had ever called him on his bluff because he never really lied about it. When she’d left the gang with Jack, everybody had assumed that the obvious was true – she’d gotten tired of the lifestyle and wanted to leave, and John had been loyal to Dutch before anybody else, and she’d gone without him. They provided the story, and he agreed. And when John hadn’t pulled any fleece over anybody’s eyes for a few months, they truly believed that was that. Even Micah, which amazed John, because he’d always assumed a rat could smell a rat.

In retrospect, though he’d missed her, he was glad she’d left when she did. Things had gone from bad to worse. Food was scarce, they were broke, and Dutch seemed to be going slowly insane, leaving Micah to lead them more often than not which never led to anything good. By the time they’d heard about the train, there were only five of them left who were able to assist, and John suspected Micah wasn’t planning on going back to the collect the folks who were too weak to come along. It made him feel a little better taking all that money for himself, knowing it wouldn’t have gone back to the community pot.

Of course it hadn’t gone exactly according to plan. He hadn’t expected to be shot, hadn’t expected his horse to be shot. That had made getting away a little complicated – he’d ridden double with Micah and had to steal the horse when they all settled down and made camp. He very well couldn’t ride around on a horse that somebody might recognize, so he’d sent it running down the road after he hid the money, and then he’d had the bad fortune to steal the lamest horse he’d ever had the displeasure of riding. But the money was hidden, and he was hidden, and he wasn’t exactly sure what Arthur Callahan’s situation was but he knew it was favorable for him. Now his only concern was hoping he could lay low long enough that Dutch stopped looking, and the law stopped patrolling the area so frequently, and that Abigail had enough faith to stay where she was. Give it a few more days, and the papers would be reporting deaths of gang members, nameless and otherwise, and he hoped that even if she assumed he was one of them she wouldn’t _move_. If he could get word to her, at least to tell her where the money was, things would be fine. He figured if things with Callahan stayed at least amicable he could even ask him to bring a letter to town.

Arthur Callahan. Now, there was one hell of an interesting situation. The guy was an intimidating, unreadable bear of a man, and John figured even when he was at his healthiest Arthur could have easily bested him in a fight. There was an air about him that John liked, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He intrigued him – a reclusive trapper with disdain for the law and absolutely no items of personal importance that John could find anywhere in the cabin. He had looked that first day he was left alone, of course. How could he not. He’d found only a stack of books and a medical kit under the bed – the chest at the foot of the cot was full of bait and furs and a few strange-looking trinkets, and he hadn’t bothered looking through that beyond a cursory glance. But the books. A _literate_ reclusive trapper with disdain for the law, who didn’t really seem too offended that John had attempted to rob him. He’d be right at home with Dutch’s team of misfits, if Dutch hadn’t lost his damn mind and made their lives hell.

John figured Callahan was a man with a past. Maybe one that predisposed him to root for the underdog. It made John smile to himself while he read that afternoon, and when Callahan had come through the front door and grunted that he’d told him not to search around for his things. John had just shrugged, and told him he remembered being told not to steal anything, which he hadn’t. Callahan hadn’t responded, although he checked to make sure the dishes had been done, and then disappeared out the back door. John listened to him working, and wondered what livestock he expected to raise in a fucking forest.

He admitted he’d started off assuming Callahan was a particular kind of man. The kind of man you would assume was comfortably living in the middle of nowhere, in a small cabin, without so much as a dog for company. Guns up on the walls, accompanied by furs and bones, and a sparse kitchen – he’d formed an image of who lived there when he first walked in, and Callahan matched the image in his head although he was a little younger than John had assumed he’d be. His wit that first night had been the first sign that maybe John’s assumptions were a little off. And then the books under the bed. And the next night, he realized Arthur must keep all his truly personal possessions on his body – he’d woken up in the middle of the night to find him facing away from him at the table, sketching in a journal that John hadn’t seen before. When he noticed he was being watched, he tucked the journal into a satchel, which joined his coat by the door. John wondered what else Callahan was hiding in there.

On the third day he realized Callahan looked at him a lot more than he ought to. At first John chalked it up to him being by himself for too long, but quickly realized that Callahan seemed to have a pretty robust social life for a hermit. Some big family nearby. He’d overheard a woman with a rasping drawl of a voice coming in to check on his progress building his stables, and offer to help him bring in lumber, extending an invitation to stay elsewhere for the night. Callahan had declined, and John had stayed quiet inside the cabin and thought no, Arthur Callahan was well socialized enough not to be desperate. He wasn’t so hard to look at, either, all broad chest and rippling muscle.

So maybe John stretched out more in bed, and arched to extend his back a little while he was leaning on the counter. Maybe he leaned up tighter against his captor-host-guardian when he accepted assistance getting outside. Maybe he held eye contact a little too long. If he did any of these things, maybe it helped – Callahan warmed up to him more and more with each passing day. The Abigail that occupied a small corner of his mind at all times clucked at him and cast him a cheeky smile every time, looking at him out of the corner of her eye. _John Marston, you tease,_ she said. _Can’t say I blame you. Bet he looks fine under that beard._

Of course, maybe Callahan would have warmed up to him anyway. They did talk a lot, and got to know each other pretty well – as well as John could allow, anyway. A few times it felt like Callahan might be trying to get information more information out of him, and John had to pick his words carefully so he could give him as much information as possible while making sure he knew nothing important. As the weeks went on, though, he got that feeling less and less and John found they seemed to have enough in common. Two orphaned kids making trouble with a taste for travel and adventure. Although, Callahan was a lot quicker with his words than John was, which hadn’t been expected. John figured silent meant stupid more often than not, but that wasn’t the case at all with Callahan. The man was solid and gruff and mostly muscle, but when he spoke it was always quick-witted. He just chose his timing wisely, and he reminded John of Abigail. A lot.

Abigail. He missed Jack too, but he missed Abigail like he’d miss his right hand if he lost it. He’d need to write to her, once he figured out a way. Strategies on how to contact her began to occupy a lot of his waking thoughts when he wasn’t distracted by Callahan, and some of his dreams as well. He talked to himself when he was alone like he was talking to her, and sometimes Callahan reminded him of her so strongly that it shocked him. One time in particular, he had twisted his leg strangely and started to bleed, and Callahan had called him a fool and spit venom even as he tended his wound as tenderly as he could without a single ounce of frustration in his movement, and all he could think was that Abigail would probably react the same way. It had silenced him immediately, to the point that Callahan paused and asked if he was alright.

“I’m fine,” he’d said. “Just hurts.”

In addition to keeping him from bleeding out, Callahan also kept him well-fed, which was something John hadn’t experienced for what felt like a long time. He was thrilled beyond belief when he started seeing a difference in himself. His wrists thickened again, the sinew on his arms became less and less noticeable. After two weeks, when Callahan had given him monitored access to a straight razor and his mirror, he was shocked to see his own face.

“What a difference a little food makes, huh,” Callahan had rumbled, and John had risen to the bait without realizing it.

“Ain’t like I wasn’t eating on purpose.”

“No need to get sensitive, just wasn’t sure you knew how to feed yourself considerin’ I been takin’ you out to piss every morning like a dog.”

John had looked over his shoulder, ready to spit venom, before he noticed Callahan wasn’t even looking at him. He had a strange expression on his face, and the beard hid whatever small smile he had, but his eyes were crinkled at the edges. So John had scoffed, and turned back to the mirror, and said, “Just adaptin’ to my role. Not sure what else to do after gettin’ chained to a wall and fed leftovers.”

Callahan had chuckled, then, and John had struggled not to grin too wide.

When the lawmen came around, John hadn’t worried. Three weeks in and Callahan wasn’t watching him shave anymore. Didn’t seem to mind at all as John walked stiffly around the house and began to exercise, testing his strength and how much his leg could tolerate. He didn’t even take the guns every time he left anymore. He did keep the satchel on him at all times still, spying John watching him draw and write too often. John didn’t ask to see it. He figured, if they got friendly enough, Callahan would show him on his own – or he’d eventually forget to take it with him and John could pounce on the chance to open it up.

They’d heard horses outside during dinner, and Callahan had held up his hand and moved to the door, opening and closing it fast enough that nobody could have seen inside, but not so quick it looked strange. It was a practiced move, and John wondered for the thousandth time what Callahan was out here hiding from that made him so good at keeping his cool. He listened to the man talk to the law, grunting in response most of the time. He didn’t recognize any of the voices outside, which seemed like a good sign. The sheriff in Strawberry had sent them, they said, and they were looking for a man. Of course, Callahan hadn’t seen anybody strange. And no, he couldn’t explain why they hadn’t found tracks, aside from the fact they maybe weren’t the greatest trackers. Of course they couldn’t help that, they weren’t professional lawmen or anything. John grinned and bit back a laugh, and didn’t bother hiding it when Callahan came back inside.

“What?” Callahan grunted, looking him up and down as he walked back to his dinner.

“Nothin’. Just funny, is all, how much you don’t like the law.”

“Idiots with guns and a god complex,” he grunted into his venison before he shoved it in his mouth. “Besides, ain’t like I’m gonna let ‘em inside. I still got payment I gotta extract from you, Milton.”

“Sure,” John laughed. “You never did say how long it was gonna take you to get that outta me.”

“Yeah, well. You keep wastin’ my time, I keep tackin’ days on. Before it was just until I get that god damn stable finished. Now I ain’t too sure, especially since I’m gettin’ it built faster than you’re healin’.”

“Startin’ to seem like you’re just plannin’ to keep me around as a pet. All you’ve managed to make me do is eat.”

Callahan’s cheeks flushed immediately and he stared intently at his food. Of course, it could just be color cast by the fire. The Abigail in his mind laughed at the idea and shook her head, saying, _I’m sure that’s what he hopes you’re thinkin’_. “You sure run your mouth enough to get mistaken for one, yappin’ like that. Though you make a pretty miserable guard dog, couldn’t even rely on you to scare them men off yourself. Had to do it for you.”

“Guess I make a better house cat,” John grinned, leaning back dramatically in his chair. Callahan just shook his head.

After four weeks he was well enough to help out more, and he kept up his end of the bargain. Callahan had already cleared an empty area to the side of his house, in clear view of the back window, and had marked his plans out on the ground. John couldn’t lift much – his leg was still stiff and the wounds would tear and bleed if bothered too much, but he could work. Sometimes it was just pulling water from the well, or handing Callahan what he needed, or keeping things steady while they were shifted into place. Halfway through the fifth week, Callahan stopped to watch him hammering nails into the planking on the wall of the frame they’d just erected, and looked like he was trying to do math in his head. John blinked at him.

“What?”

“You hungry?”

John paused, and let the hammer fall to his side. Arthur was asking him something else. He was asking John if he left him alone, would John make a run for the horse just a few feet away and flee. It would be a lie to say he hadn’t considered it, but it was a brief and fleeting thought.

“Yeah. I could use somethin’ to eat, I reckon.”

Arthur nodded, and wiped sweat off of his forehead and nodded again, and then turned around and went inside, and John let himself watch. In work pants and his union suit, Arthur lost a lot of his bulk and cut an intimidating and angular figure. In his mind, Abigail hummed low, and John agreed. When the back door closed, John grinned to himself and went back to work.

“John Marston, wealthy outlaw, father, husband, ranch hand to a trapper without a ranch,” he said under his breath. “So much for needin’ you to survive, Dutch. Doin’ just fine on my own.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The stable was done a week later, accompanied by an enclosure and a feeding trough. Arthur had pulled out a bottle of whiskey that John had somehow missed on one of the many times he rummaged through the cabin, and announced they should celebrate a lot of hard work well done. John agreed.

“What you gonna put in that pen, anyhow?” John asked, watching Arthur pour.

“Goats. Ain’t much else I can put in there, for now anyways.”

“Hate to break it to you, Arthur, there shouldn’t be a _for now_ in that sentence. Can’t very well raise up cattle in the forest like this.”

“We on a first name basis now?”

John blinked, and looked down at his whiskey before looking back at Arthur, who was watching him with that look about his eyes that meant he was smiling just a little. He wasn’t sure when that had started – when had he shifted from Callahan to Arthur? He shrugged a little. “Guess so. I ain’t even drunk yet.”

“Well, Jim. I own some of that valley down there, so _for now_ most certainly does belong in that sentence.”

“That your way of tellin’ me I’m gonna be stuck here until you finish buildin’ an entire ranch?”

Arthur barked a laugh. “At that point I reckon I’d have to pay you for your help, and I ain’t near rich enough for that.”

“Damn.”

“Lookin’ to turn over a new leaf workin’ on a ranch, outlaw?” Arthur poured out another round.

“Might just be. I’m gettin’ a little old for that kinda chaos.”

“Good for you, kid. Good for you.”

“How long you been lyin’ low?”

Arthur paused bringing the cup to his lips, and John grinned. “What makes you think I’m lyin’ low?”

“Just teasin’. Though now I’m really startin’ to wonder.”

“Cheeky little shit,” Arthur chuckled, shaking his head like that was an answer. John didn’t think it wise to push.

“So how you gonna keep all the wild animals outta your pen?”

“I been thinkin’ about that. Don’t rightly know as of yet. Although, y’know – maybe I oughta get a dog. A real one. Big, mean-lookin’ dog’ll bark like the devil. Hell, it’d stop folks invitin’ themselves into my kitchen when I ain’t here.”

“Well, maybe you don’t want a dog, then. That worked out pretty well for both of us.”

“Worked out well for you. Don’t know about how well it worked for me – you’re gonna eat me outta house and home.”

“Aw, c’mon, old man. Ain’t I been good company? Must get kinda lonely out here.”

“I used to have a dog, y’know. Copper. Good damn dog,” Arthur said, abrupt and distracted and suddenly very intent on looking only at the cup in his hand. John felt his interest mounting – he imagined the expression on Abigail’s face as she went in for the kill whenever he said something particularly stupid, and wondered if that was how she felt. He liked it, he decided, and he reached for the whiskey to pour more.

“How long you been out here, Arthur.”

“Dunno. Ten years by now, must be.”

“And y’ain’t married.”

“Used to be. Had a kid, too. They’re dead now.”

Wow. Sharp turn in an unexpected direction. John opened his mouth to say that he was sorry, as the feeling he liked curled in on itself and morphed into regret for bringing the subject up at all, and Arthur stopped him.

“It was a long time ago. I was younger’n you, even. Barely twenty. And then there was Mary, when I was about your age, and she was – she was a perfect woman, y’know. But it just didn’t – work out. I had to come out here.”

“So you been here on your own since you been here.”

“More or less. Don’t look at me like that.”

John blinked, and leaned back in his chair again. He hadn’t realized he’d been leaning closer. “Like what?”

Arthur scowled briefly as he stared into his cup, and it seemed to take great effort for him to look up at John again. “I don’t need pity.”

“I’d be a fool to even think of pityin’ somebody as terrifyin’ as you. I just think it’s a shame. You’re a fine man. Folks are missin’ out.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“I ain’t jokin’.”

Arthur’s grip on his cup turned white-knuckled and John weighed his options. The conversation had taken a strange course he wasn’t prepared for, although in retrospect it was a turn he probably should have expected. There was a certain sadness that must come with making the choice to live in the middle of nowhere on your own, and he just hadn’t considered how that could play out. He could stand, and make a move over to him and take control of the situation, but he was beginning to think he’d misread things or that maybe Arthur would turn tail and run like a frightened animal. He could change the subject and risk never being able to get back to the point they had reached. Or he could take the middle route and straddle the line. He thought Abigail would probably take the middle route.

He knocked his knee lightly against Arthur’s under the table, testing the water. When the other didn’t shift away, he moved it back and kept it pressed against him. Arthur looked back at his empty cup.

“Y’know, y’oughta shave that beard off,” John said. “Bet you ain’t half-bad lookin’ under that.”

Arthur got up fast and John had to will himself to stay calm. Arthur wasn’t even looking at him – he wasn’t about to get hit. No, Arthur went for his jacket and satchel and his rifle, and left quickly out the back door. A few moments later, John heard the sound of a horse, and then there were only the sounds of the woods.

He sighed, shook his head at the empty room. “Nice try, John.”

_Just wait_ , said Abigail. _He just needs a little time._ He nodded, and started getting changed for bed. His throat felt tight and his stomach tense as he got into the cot, and he fell asleep listening for sounds of a horse that never came.

John woke up instead to the sound of splashing water and the sight of Arthur standing in front of the mirror. It took him a few moments to realize he was shaving, and he couldn’t help but grin. He got to his feet stiffly, stretching his leg out before he even tried to stand, and limped his way over to the other side of the room. Arthur was trying his hardest not to acknowledge him, judging by the tension in his shoulders and the way he resolutely did not look at John’s reflection in the mirror. John was a little thankful for that, because he saw the briefest flicker of himself being caught off-guard.

Arthur Callahan was impossibly handsome under that beard.Chiseled jaw, the smallest scar on his chin, moles and freckles and lines all arranged in the best way John could imagine.

“Knew you were hidin’ somethin’ good under there,” John said, casual as he moved to light the stove and make coffee and impressed with himself like he pulled the tone off. Like it wasn’t a big deal the man he’d been living with for a month, his sole protector as much as he was a captor, had the face of a god. He regretted he couldn’t share the find with Abigail.

There was only a grunt in response.

“Where’d you run off to last night?”

“Didn't run, had to check the traps.”

“Funny time to check traps.”

Arthur said nothing and John tried to think about what Abigail would do. Abigail was always much better at reading people. It made her a better thief, amongst other things. John always did his best going a direct and honest route, but Arthur didn’t even know his real name.

“If I was bein’ too forward you can tell me. If I misread somethin’.”

“You-” Arthur started, too loud. He took a breath and gripped the edge of the wash bin, white-knuckled and shaking. He continued with a quieter voice. “You didn’t.”

“So why’re you mad?”

Arthur didn’t answer. He just looked down at the basin, and John figured on the risky bet, this time. He heard Abigail’s voice whispering approval when he put his hand on Arthur’s arm and turned him. All it took was a gentle tug, although Arthur didn’t meet his gaze.

“Why’re you mad,” he asked again, and reached to wipe a missed trace of soap from Arthur’s cheek. The shave was close enough, but John felt stubble catching on the callouses on his thumb and fought the urge to shudder. Especially as Arthur’s lashes fluttered closed and his brow furrowed, as he seemed to lean towards John’s hand even as it withdrew.

“I tried so hard to be alone,” Arthur said, and John thought his voice was so low he might have missed it if he was any further away. “You gone and undone ten years of wantin’ it that way. Selfish son of a bitch.”

He had a thousand fond and sharp things to say as genuine affection bubbled in his chest, but all of them died on his tongue and John knew a few things all at once. First, he knew that Arthur had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen – the mix of shame and anger and desperation in them made them more vibrant than usual, he thought. He also knew that Arthur was probably the most beautiful man he’d ever seen. Those things were all fine. The problem was he knew without a shadow of a doubt it was going to be impossible for him to leave him behind.

He wondered what he should write to Abigail, when he was finally able to, or if he could convince Arthur to come with him and meet up with them. Probably not. And god, he didn’t look forward to explaining the fact that he had a wife and child to Arthur at all. The whole thing seemed like a mess. The strange tightness in his chest he had watching Arthur on the verge of shamefilled tears, which was a close cousin of the sensation he got when he thought of Abigail worrying about him, was uninvited and unexpected and going to make his life more difficult than it already was.

John had never been great at planning. That was Abigail’s forte. John was better at being in the moment, and at that moment, he decided he could deal with everything later. He put his hand back on Arthur’s cheek, open palm against his jaw as his fingers spread and stroking, and Arthur absolutely leaned in to it. Ten years was a long time to be alone, and it showed.

He was kissing Arthur before he really knew that’s what he was doing. Arthur’s lips were tentative and soft, and he leaned into every piece of John’s skin that touched his. John registered the light press of fingertips on his hips, but felt more preoccupied sliding his hand back into the hair at the nape of Arthur’s neck. His other hand had found a happy home braced against his throat and jaw, pressing gently into Arthur’s flesh as John deepened the kiss.

At first Arthur opened his mouth, and he let John flick his tongue against his teeth and bite lightly at his lip before he pulled away enough to speak.

“I have to go,” he mumbled, and his voice was slurred and heavy-sounding. John’s wasn’t much better.

“Where?”

“Town,” Arthur offered, and let himself be pulled close again. John managed a few more moments occupying his attention before Arthur started talking again, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself. “Had enough food for one man for two months. Two men made it one month and that means I go back to Strawberry for supplies. I gotta go.”

“Let it wait,” John said, and moved his hand up to Arthur’s cheek to watch him tilt into it again.

“I can’t. I gotta get things for Mrs. Adler, gotta pick up the fuckin’ goats. I gotta go.”

John made a noise in his throat he hoped communicated his displeasure before letting his hand fall down to Arthur’s chest. “Hurry up, then.”

Arthur nodded. This was bad, John thought. Arthur would normally be telling him to fuck himself, or mentioning that if he had real help these things wouldn’t take so long, but he was just silent and nodding. John had gotten away from Dutch and Micah, from the consequences of the train robbery, and found himself a whole new problem. And Arthur didn’t even know his name.

He expected Arthur to kiss him again, but it didn’t come. Instead he just pressed his forehead against John’s and somehow, John thought, that was much more intimate. Much worse. They existed in the same space for seconds, and then Arthur was gone as abruptly as he had been the night before. John looked at the closed door, registered the sound and smell of the percolator in the background thought it was strange how quickly the terrain had shifted. He turned, feeling heady and drunk, and went to take the pot off the stove and pour himself coffee.

It was nearing the point that he had to write Abigail, because she had been waiting and waiting without word and he was beginning to think he might want to make a home where he was, but he wasn’t sure what to say. He wasn’t sure how to ask Arthur to take a letter to town for him without explaining who it was for, or if Arthur would question why he was sending a letter to a woman. And if he didn’t, he still had to tell him eventually. It was going to get messy regardless. He wasn’t sure what his next steps should involve, because he knew he had to go collect the money and his family, but he didn’t particularly enjoy the idea of leaving Arthur behind. All it took was fifteen minutes and he had lost track of everything. Five weeks ago he had felt certain and cocky and now he was just as confused and desperate as he had been standing in the kitchen the very first day.

_Foolish man,_ Abigail said. There was no venom to it, but John thought maybe he was a stupid as everybody always said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John thinks he's super on top of his shit at all times, but he very rarely ever is. 
> 
> I always write out the whole fic before I post, telling myself, hey, maybe wait and only post one chapter at a time ... and then four hours later, half the thing is online already. The other half oughta be up sometime tomorrow! (The second half is where I'm hiding the porn and the pain.)


	4. Chapter 4

The wind felt strange on Arthur’s face as he rode. The looks in town felt strange.  The way the butcher looked him over when he sold his  goods felt strange.  The places where Jim’s skin had touched his felt like they burned, still, and he wondered if somehow people could tell. He wondered if, despite the years of hiding out in a place where nobody could possibly know his face and living amongst them exclusively as Arthur Callahan, they recognized him from his days with Dutch. Had they ever robbed anywhere that far east, back then? Arthur couldn’t remember,  and had to trust his younger self who had made good choices. Unlike the ones he made now . His brain felt like it was full of  white noise, and he couldn’t think straight . 

He didn’t like the feeling of being out of control, and he didn’t know how to stop it. It wasn’t even like things had gotten out of hand – things had actually been extremely in hand. He felt like he was getting close enough to Jim to ask him about Dutch without sending him running immediately, they’d been getting to know each other and Arthur no longer had to watch him constantly, and all had been well. He even genuinely enjoyed Jim’s company, and had even entertained the idea that Jim enjoyed his enough to consider sticking around a little longer than he needed to. As it turned out, all Jim needed to do to ruin his sense of control was touch his knee under a table like they were teenagers. A floodgate had opened, and every ounce of control Arthur had had over the situation was swept down a the river and all he could think about was the rough feeling of Jim’s fingers against his cheek and the fact that he was well and truly in over his head. Arthur had been in love enough to recognize the nauseatingly intense feeling in his chest.

Really ,  despite the fact the had practically torn his own heart out of his chest and put it on display,  thing were still in control. It wasn’t like he had damaged any progress he’d made – it might even be better. If Jim trusted him enough to risk what he had, he certainly would trust him enough to tell him about Dutch . This was actually a fine thing, except eventually Jim would leave or with Arthur’s luck Dutch would find the both of them and shoot them where they stood. Arthur regretted drinking – not for the first time. He had always been something of an emotional drunk. He should have known better. 

Strawberry had passed in a fog, and he’d somehow ended up with two waxed canvas sacks of food attached to his horse  that he did not remember placing there – he couldn’t imagine what was in them, and wondered if the clerk would tell him how strange he’d been acting the next time he was in .  Hanging Dog Ranch  turned out to be something of both a relief and a pain. By the time he’d gotten there it was well into the evening, and Sadie and her troop were sitting down to dinner. Sadie looked at him twice when she answered the door. 

“Damn, Arthur. You kept a face under there?”

“Underwhelming, I know.”

Sadie rolled her eyes. “The self-defacing thing is very charming. C’mon. We’re eatin’.”

“I just come for the goats, Sadie.”

“Good! About time. Don’t change the fact we’re eatin’.”

Arthur sighed, and followed her to the kitchen. Lenny grinned seeing him clean-shaven (“Got tired of the hillbilly look?”) and Tilly widened her eyes at him briefly before smiling tightly at her dinner. Charles said nothing, only nodding at his entrance and scooting to the side so Sadie could fit a chair next to him. Arthur sat, and thanked Sadie for dinner as she put a plate heaping with food in front of him.

“You know I do eat, don’t you?” Arthur said, blinking at the mountainous dinner.

“Sure I do, Arthur, I just don’t think you eat _good_ food.”

“Fair enough.”

“Here for the goats, Arthur?” Charles asked. Arthur nodded, and Charles hummed a little. “Saw the pen when I was out hunting. Looks good. You thought about getting a dog?”

“Probably will,” Arthur said, scratching the back of his neck. He couldn’t stop the thought Jim really did make an awful guard dog and so he cleared his throat and focused on his food instead of how red his face had gotten.

“Bertha’s gonna have a bunch of puppies sooner or later,” Tilly said. “We could bring you one when it’s big enough, if you ain’t gotten one by then.” 

“I’d appreciate that, Miss Tilly. Thank you.”

“In the mean time I bet Charles’d help you with the goats tomorrow morning.”

“I was just gonna get ‘em up there tonight.”

“Good luck leadin’ those beasts out anywhere in the dark,” Sadie scoffed. “Really best you wait ‘til morning, Arthur. We got plenty of space for you to sleep and store your things, save your horse a little effort if you don’t wanna head on home.”

Arthur thought about not going back home. Thought about Jim waiting expectantly. Thought about how badly he wanted to press himself into Jim’s space and feel his hand against his cheek again, and figure out exactly where they stood. He didn’t know what should come first – the conversation about Dutch or the one about whether or not Jim was interested in staying. Both seemed complicated and overwhelming, and likely to influence each other.

A nd then A rthur thought maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea to spend a night away from home, where his only options were sleeping awkwardly on the floor or, more likely, falling over whatever cliff he was hurdling to wards at breakneck speeds. 

“You got a good point. Might as well be leadin’ ‘em straight to the wolves, takin’ them out this late anyway.”

“Always knew you weren’t as stupid as you looked,” Sadie grinned, and Lenny laughed before reaching to clap Arthur on the arm.

After dinner, Arthur led his horse out to the barn and set about getting her taken care of. The groceries had been stashed in the kitchen, and the very pregnant blue-tick coon hound who normally patrolled the grounds had decided to follow him and the horse back to the barn and now sat watching him work. Copper had been a coon hound. Arthur figured it would be nice to have another around, and that he could manage to keep the animals alive for a few months  until the dog was ready to help . The thought kept him surprisingly occupied as he removed all the tack and started about grooming – focusing on the current task at hand stopped him from panicking about anything else . He never had named the horse. Hadn’t thought of a good thing to call her, and so had only ever referred to her as  _girl_ . She didn’t seem to mind at all. Arthur wondered if they really knew names, or if they just responded to voices. 

“Wondered where you got off to,” Tilly said. Arthur looked over his shoulder, and saw her enter the barn. She walked over to Bertha and reached down to scratch between her ears. Tilly looked up at him and gave him a crooked smile. “You too. How’s that fox comin?”

Arthur returned the  expression and turned his eyes back to the task at hand. “ Ain’t found you the perfect one yet. It’s comin’, though.”

“Guess I’ll just have to be patient. You doin’ okay, Arthur?”

“You keep askin’ me that,” he said, and smiled as fondly as he could manage. “Beginnin’ to think I’m doin’ something concernin’.”

“You just seem… I dunno. Like maybe those problems you talked about are a little more present than the rest of ours.”

“Just been thinkin’ about ‘em a lot.”

“I think about mine a lot too and it don’t make me twitchy.”

“Twitchy?” Arthur said, raising his brow at her.

“I seen you stand your ground against a grizzly bear, Arthur Callahan. That thing ran at you and you just stood there shootin’ like it weren’t nothin’. But last month when Sadie started talkin’ about that train robbery all the muscles in your jaw tensed right up. Every time I seen you down here since then,  you checked right out of every conversation we had about five minutes in and stared out somewhere that I ain’t sure’s even real. So yeah, Arthur. Twitchy.”

Unsure of what exactly to say, Arthur finished with the horse and stepped out of the stable, closing it behind him. Tilly waited patiently with her arms crossed over her waist, and Arthur struggled, still. “I – It’s been… a long couple of weeks. But I  _am_ fine. I promise you.”

“Alright, Arthur. But when you get tired of this lone wolf act you got goin’ on right now, you can bring us up to speed.”

“That ain’t gonna happen.”

“Why, ‘cause it’s dangerous?”

Arthur started to talk. Started to say  _yes, yes it is. You don’t know these people_ . Tilly stopped him. 

“You remember when you showed up here? Me and Sadie and those girls, all shootin’ down a bunch of armed thugs. We didn’t _need_ your help, useful as it was. We knew what we were doin’. You think four women who shoot that good ain’t seen their fair share of dangerous situations? I use to run with these boys down south, you know. Real violent. Real mean. Took me a long time to get away from them, and that whole time I ran jobs. Stagecoaches mostly. Lenny’s been through the same, and Charles is – Charles, he’s been all over. In all kinds of things, legal and otherwise. Sadie used to take _bounties_. So I promise, whatever you think is too dangerous, it ain’t nothin’ special.”

Arthur nodded. It was all he could manage – he wasn’t sure how to respond. None of what Tilly had said surprised him, exactly, but he hadn’t really considered… anything. Arthur felt like he’d been living in a bubble, and it had popped violently, and now he was seeing reality. Reality was that Dutch was long gone, and he had been safe for years. Even if he wasn’t gone, Arthur wasn’t a kid anymore, and there wasn’t much Dutch could do. He’d  done  just like Hosea had said, and run, and not looked back – except he hadn’t bothered to make a life for himself. He’d turned down every opportunity. And now he was faced with the daunting prospect of having to truly reconcile with his past, and he didn’t know how to start except for maybe embrace what he already had. Insight he’d have to bring back to Jim. 

Arthur offered her his arm.

“Miss Tilly, when I figure out what I wanna say, you will be the first one I say it to.”

“You’re a good man, Arthur Callahan. Dumb as sin, but good,” Tilly teased, and looped her arm through his. “Walk me back to the house.”

“Morgan,” Arthur murmured. “Last name’s Morgan.”

“Well. Arthur Morgan. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, Tilly Jackson.”

“Morgan sounds _much better_ than Callahan,” Tilly laughed, and Arthur agreed. 

 

 

 

* * *

  


 

Arthur spent the night in a bed, and in the morning he felt like he’d gotten at least a year younger.  Life made little more sense than it had when he’d parted ways with Tilly, but he certainly felt better. No wonder his back had  been so stiff – he’d been sleeping on the floor since Jim had shown up.  Arthur thought he’d have to do something about that, one way or another. Jim’s leg couldn’t be that bad anymore. On his way out of the room, he caught sight of the bearskin in Sadie’s room down the hall through the open door, and smiled to himself.

Sadie fed him breakfast, and he didn’t try not to take it. He just thanked her and sat when she put her hand on his shoulder, next to Charles who ate silently and nodded at him. Lenny sat across from them, practically falling back asleep over his breakfast, leaning heavily on an arm propped on the table. Tilly had already gotten to work. He spotted her taking down laundry in preparation for the storm that was inevitably going to strike judging by the darkened sky, and waved goodbye to her as he and Charles set about herding the goats up the road.

The rain started just after they left. The thunder came shortly after, and they struggled to keep control of the herd. Charles had the good foresight to bring one of the dogs along, and it helped, but progress was slow. Charles started laughing halfway there.

“What’s so god damn funny?” Arthur asked, incredulous. 

“It would have been a better idea to do this last night,” Charles answered, shaking his head. Arthur blinked, and then found himself laughing too.

When they reached the cabin, the rain was still pouring. It had started cascading down the road, and Arthur thought he hadn’t been so muddy for years. He hollered at Charles to follow him around the back, and hoped he was loud enough to be heard over the sound of water and panicked and uncomfortable livestock. As it was, he wasn’t sure if it was his voice or the general ruckus that brought Jim out to the front door. He looked like he’d tried to keep calm doing it, but had failed at the last second – Arthur thought he caught a look of outright panic on his face that shifted immediately to relief and then cold indifference,  and something else Arthur cou l dn’t identify as Jim laid eyes on Charles. He looked to Charles, who bore a similar if not colder expression, and cleared his throat. 

“Jim Milton. He’s been helpin’ me with the work. Jim, this is Charles Smith, from Hanging Dog.”

Jim nodded tensely. Charles returned the gesture, and then looked back to Arthur. “’Round back?”

Quickly deciding he’d sort out whatever had just happened later, Arthur nodded swung himself out of the saddle, landing heavily in the mud while Charles led the goats away  with the dog barking at stragglers. Arthur untied his supplies and brought the rain-soaked bags over to Jim, who hefted them up with far less difficulty than Arthur expected. He really did look a lot better than he had when they’d first met.  Didn’t even limp that much anymore.

“You get that put away, I’ll be inside presently,” Arthur said.

“Sure. Arthur-”

“I’ll be inside,” he said again. Jim looked uncertain, but nodded, and disappeared in the house.

Arthur led his horse around to the lean to and left her there before running to meet Charles, who had successfully penned the animals. They’d headed to shelter immediately, and he was laying down feed and cleaning them up as best he could. Arthur hopped the fence and went to join.

“Thanks for this, Charles,” he said, and Charles nodded.

“You’ve done the same for us. Listen, Arthur – I know that man.”

Arthur looked over at Charles, who now stood straight, fists clenched at his sides. Arthur straightened himself up and put his hands on his hips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I met him briefly, a long time ago. He was on that train that got robbed last month.”

“You’re certain?”

“Certain. He rode with them, that gang. And his name isn’t Jim. It’s John Marston. And if he’s the one that broke off from them, then they are definitely looking for him, and you are in a lot of trouble as long as he’s here. Who knows why John’s here - maybe he took the money and ran, maybe he’s just trying to strike out on his own, I don’t know. But I do know that no matter what the reason is, they are coming after him. He’s as good as Dutch’s son, and he’ll take John’s leaving personally. I doubt that’s changed since I rode with them.” 

“He dangerous?”

“John? No. John was… in the wrong place at the right time. Like a lot of us. A violent idealist. At least, he wasn’t dangerous then, I don’t know what he’s like now. Can’t imagine years with Dutch do much for your sanity - I only made it a few months.”

“Thank you, Charles. Can I ask you another favor?”

“Sure, Arthur.”

“Keep this quiet. I can take care of it.”

“And if you can’t?”

“Well. Then I guess Mrs. Adler can add a little more acreage to her ranch.”

“You don’t have to do this alone, you know.”

“I know. And I won’t – if I need help, I’ll tell you. Swear it.”

Charles nodded, and the way he moved, Arthur knew he’d clocked Jim – John.  _John_ . Looking out the window. With something close to hesitation, Charles told Arthur goodbye, mounted his horse, and left with the dog trailing behind him. The feeling that the conversation left Arthur with wasn’t panic, or satisfaction, but rather an intense and overwhelming sense of clarity  that he had desperately been craving . Arthur decided not to look towards the cabin, and instead focused on finishing the work at hand. On getting the horse cleaned and situated. On walking through the mud and water without falling face-first. On opening the front door, and finally on deciding exactly how he was going to play this. Seeing John closer to the door than expected, he made up his mind a lot faster than he’d figured he would. 

“Seems like we got a lot to talk about, John Marston.” 

“Seems like we do,” John said. His fists clenched at his side, and Arthur thought back to when they met. There stood John staring him down like a wolf again, eyeing him like he couldn’t decide if he was a threat or prey. There was no knife on the table for John to grab this time, though, and he wasn’t sure he would go for it even if there was.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The porn is here, guys. So's the pain. I don't know if I should say you're welcome or apologize.

Arthur moved first, and closed the distance between them so quickly that John tensed like he was expecting to be punched. With John caught off-guard by the fact that that _wasn’t_ what was happening, Arthur had him pinned against the wall quickly. Though he was cushioned by furs John grunted upon impact, breath taken from him as Arthur pressed bodily against him. Arthur felt a surge of feeling, a strange and intense mix of lust and admiration, as he felt the length of John’s narrow and muscled abdomen against him. To his credit, John caught on quickly – by the time Arthur was moving to kiss him he already had his hands in his hair, pushing his hat back and off his head.

“I was worried about you,” John breathed against his cheek, dragging his hands down his neck and shoulders so he could start working on Arthur’s soaking clothing, starting with the buttons on his shirt. Arthur couldn’t figure how he managed to force his hands between their bodies. “Figured you’d gotten your dumb ass eaten by a bear. Murdered by highwaymen or something.”

“Sounds like I’m at a higher risk for that at home,” Arthur said, pulling back so he could peel his coat and shirt sleeves away. He was reluctant to do it despite knowing it would get him closer to John faster, and kept their hips pressed together and his mouth near John’s in compromise.

“You don’t seem too bothered about that.” It came out like a growl, and Arthur couldn’t think of anything else to say, so he just let John slide his tongue into his mouth.

After the clothing hit the floor with a wet smack, suddenly John’s hands felt like they were _everywhere._ They traveled over the breadth of his chest and down his sides tracing muscles and scars, until they left his recently exposed skin and moved around to grab his ass and pull him closer. Arthur felt John’s cock pressing insistently against his hip as he ground his own against him, and he moaned against John’s jaw. It was embarrassingly loud, but John must have enjoyed the sound because he pressed them together in the same way like it would illicit an identical response. Arthur’s breath caught in his throat and he gripped at John’s biceps – and then the hands on his ass were gone, and he was being pushed backwards to the cot with a firm hand on his chest. John’s other hand was back in his hair, his mouth on Arthur’s, groaning against him as Arthur gripped his waist.

Arthur felt his calves hit against the frame of the bed and he sat heavily, and then John was on him, straddling his lap and kissing him and giving him no chance to recover. John was a force of nature, wild and insistent and liable to kill him. Arthur thought he’d never been so turned on in his entire life.

When Arthur was naked on the bed, John took his own clothes off like it was an afterthought, and Arthur couldn’t imagine how he was so casual about it when every inch of skin that made contact with John’s felt like it was on fire. Once his clothing had joined Arthur’s on the floor and he was pressed against him completely there was no escaping it. Arthur was entirely consumed, and he was dimly aware of the fact that he was making obscene and pathetic noises against John’s mouth and that his grip on John’s back must be bruising, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about any of it. He registered John asking if he was alright and all he could do was nod. He was going to burn to death, and he was fine with that. John pulled back, leaving space between their bodies and depriving him of the friction he’d been consumed by, and he found himself gasping in protest. What he got in response was a crooked grin that he couldn’t bother being shamed by, and then John held his palm over Arthur’s mouth.

“Lick,” he growled, and Arthur obliged, lathing his tongue over John’s palm and each finger that was pressed past his swollen lips. John watched him intensely, and Arthur found he couldn’t look away.

Keeping himself propped up on one elbow, John lowered his hips and wrapped his spit-slicked fingers around their cocks to stroke them in unison. Moaning low at the contact, Arthur let his head fall back and felt John’s teeth and mouth on his throat. Overwhelmed to the point he started feeling strangely distant, Arthur suddenly thought that if he had any chance of lasting much longer it would probably get a little uncomfortable, but as it was he didn’t expect to last long at all. It had been a long time since he’d felt anything other than his own hand. He came hard and suddenly, slicking the space between their bellies and crying out with John’s mouth still on his throat, and if he wasn’t so caught up in how intense everything felt he might have been a little frustrated by the brevity. His orgasm ripped through him and made him feel like he needed to crawl out of his skin and right into John’s, clenching his jaw against the sounds he was making and digging his finger’s into John’s muscled shoulders. John pulled his face back from his neck and stroked him through it, murmured encouragement, told him how good he looked lost in lust like he was, and kissed his temple when Arthur tipped his head to bare his teeth against John’s collar bone and muffle the last of his cries.

He recovered shakily and moved his hands to John’s hips, stopping him from grinding down. It took next to no effort to flip John onto his back, and Arthur ignored the sounds of the younger man trying to find the words _you don’t have to_ as he got to his knees and moved his hands down the length of John’s lithe body. Arthur had had a hard enough time handling the look of him when he had been bone-thin, and now that he had filled out looking at him was almost painful. He hadn’t been able to look when John initially disrobed, he’d been so quick to fall onto Arthur. Now he ran his fingers over every scar and mole and freckle he could and watched the muscles ripple under them, before he made it down to his narrow hips and lowered his body between John’s legs.

“Really, Arthur, you don’t have to,” John panted. Arthur glared up at him.

“Shut the hell up, John.”

Arthur pressed his mouth to the base of John’s cock, one hand on the bed and the other wrapping around the rest of his length and running his thumb over the tip to smear the precum that had gathered there. He had been good at this ten years ago – he didn’t expect it to be the same, but enthusiasm always counted for something. As he dragged the flat of his tongue up John’s cock, the fingers that had been gripping his bedding wove themselves into his hair and tugged gently. Arthur hummed against him, and looked up to find John watching him with a furrowed brow, lips parted. He gripped the base of John’s cock, took the head in his mouth, and then lowered himself slowly. John let out a series of quiet curses, and Arthur figured he could do better than that.

He went slow, both because he needed to work up to more and because it thrilled him to watch John squirm. The hands in his hair clenched like he wanted to hold Arthur still and buck up into his mouth and was barely managing not to, and the way he moaned made Arthur think that wasn’t too far off. Arthur hollowed his cheeks, and worked his tongue around him, and rumbled his approval in a groan when John's fingers tightened in his hair just so he could hear John moan as a result of the vibration. John sounded just as wanton as he had, and alternated between cursing absently and calling Arthur’s name. The burning sensation in his jaw, the sting of his watering eyes as he worked, were absolutely worth it to hear that rasping voice call his name in that way. Arthur looked up again at John’s flushed face and then took as much of his cock as he could and worked his mouth and throat around him, and suddenly he found himself yanked back and sputtering, gasping for breath as John held him in position by his hair. John’s other hand was occupied, frantically working his cock. Whatever sound he had been prepared to make was strangled in his throat when he came, streaking Arthur’s face. Arthur still struggled to gather his breath, watching John finally relax and fall back onto the cot. The fingers in his hair relaxed and fell away.

Almost as breathless, John pushed himself up and leaned in and kissed Arthur before slipping out from under him. Arthur was left feeling oddly exposed, crouched on the bed naked and flushed with his face covered in spit and come, but somehow unable to move. He watched as John grabbed the cloth from the side of the wash bin, dampened it, and brought it back over. John didn’t meet his gaze directly, even as he returned and tilted Arthur’s face with a firm finger against his jaw, cleaning the mess he’d made. His touch lingered before he moved on to their stomachs, and he still didn’t look directly at Arthur as he got back into bed, although he gestured for Arthur to join him.

The cot was barely big enough for Arthur on his own, and while John was definitely lithe he wasn’t a small man, and Arthur had no choice but to lie half on top of him. He put his cheek on John’s chest and let his body settle against John’s, listening carefully to his heart and the sound of his breath, letting their legs intertwine. His mouth and throat felt almost raw, and he knew it would only get worse but he didn’t care. John was stretching out his injured leg, and Arthur reached down to rub at the muscle in his hip. John made a small sound and put his hand in Arthur’s hair. Outside the rain kept falling, and Arthur thought if Dutch was going to show up and kill them, this would be the perfect time. He was content enough that he was pretty sure he could die happy.

“I’m sorry I lied,” John said, voice strained. Arthur let his mouth twitch into a smile at the timing of it.

“Coulda gotten me killed,” he mumbled. “If your friends had shown up.”

“I didn’t think. I’m not… I’m not a good planner.”

“Don’t surprise me.”

“Y’know, I like how you suck cock, so I’m gonna ignore that you’re makin’ fun of me when I’m just trynna apologize.”

Arthur laughed low in his chest, and imagined John was grinning. “Yeah, well. I knew anyway.”

The fingers stroking his hair stopped. “What do you mean, you knew? Since when?”

“Sheriff came lookin’ for you after I knocked you out, said Dutch van der Linde’s gang robbed a train and one of them ran up this way. Didn’t have a name or a description, but it didn’t take a genius to figure it out.”

“You son of a bitch.” John sounded incredulous, and Arthur grinned. “Give me a heart attack, comin’ in here sayin’ we needed to talk like that, all for _nothin_ ’.”

“It’s fun watchin’ you panic.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Still grinning, Arthur turned his head against John’s chest as the fingers started moving again. He considered, briefly, asking John what he’d done with the money, before he realized that was a bad idea. It would scare him off, make him think that’s why Arthur had wanted him around. And Arthur didn’t really want to talk about why he had wanted John around. He didn’t want to talk about Dutch, not now that he’d realized it was better to move forward. Hell, maybe John needed that too. Maybe Arthur could help – it had taken him ten years to realize how to move on, but John could get there so much faster with a little support. John didn’t need to know that Arthur had his own history with Dutch, really. Better to leave it all behind.

“You could stay here,” Arthur offered, pressing his lips against John’s chest as the words left them.

“I look like I’m goin’ anywhere?”

“Shut up. I mean, you could live here. If you’re lookin’ to… change things, I guess.”

“I was thinkin’ about that, I – I’d like that. A lot. Thing is, I, uh.”

John’s hesitation felt like somebody dumped ice water over his back. His stomach twisted painfully and every warm feeling he’d been having froze over in a rush of panic. He knew enough about John now to know that hesitation was a bad sign – and hesitation around this topic meant only a handful of things, none of them good.“Don’t like the sound of that. Should I be feelin’ guity right now?”

“No, it’s not – it’s not like that. I mean, it’s kind of like that.”

“You’re married.”

“I – Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Christ, John,” Arthur groaned, and moved to sit, feeling sick to his stomach. He couldn’t bring himself to look at John, and just stared into the corner of the cabin. Of _course_. Panic filled him again, and he felt like a fool. He should have known better, he thought.

“Now hold, on, I just said it weren’t like that,” John followed him, grabbing his shoulder. Arthur swatted his hand away, fighting the urge to vomit. “She’s not gonna _care_. You ain’t exactly the first man I been with, and Abigail, is – well, she ain’t the jealous kind, as long as I’m not hidin’ nothin’ from her. We got a deal worked out. Hell, sometimes the two of us take up with the same person. You’re kinda her type, too, y’know? She’d be interested. If you were.”

“This is absurd.”

“Maybe. But it works pretty goddamn well.”

“Abigail Marston. Anybody else I should know about?”

“I – well, yeah. Matter of fact, I got a son. Jack.”

Arthur shook his head, and looked down at his hands. “A _kid,_ John? What the hell was that garbage about stayin’ here with me when you got a kid?”

“It wasn’t _garbage_. I thought – I thought I’d have ‘em move up here.”

“So what, you were thinkin’ the four of us could all live together, is that it? Like some fucked up family?”

“Why not?”

Arthur chanced a look over at John, who still sat looking at him with a tension in his shoulders. Arthur still felt a little sick, but the cold shock had left him. “You’re crazy.”

“I’m serious, is what I am – why not?”

“Well for one, I don’t know them, and you gotta excuse me if I don’t believe your _wife_ ain’t gonna be upset about you and me and whatever _this_ is. She might hate me, and I ain’t in the habit of hurtin’ people like that. And maybe I won’t like her. And then there’s your son, how – how you plan on explaining this to him?”

“He’s five, he don’t need to know.”

“He will, John! Kids grow up.”

“I know that, I ain’t an idiot! Look just – we’ll figure it out. I _know_ Abigail is gonna like you. You and her, you got a lot in common. You just gotta trust me on this, Arthur – this’d work. Hell, it’d more’n work, it’d work _well_.”

“Think she’ll like bein’ crammed in a one room cabin?”

“I was thinkin’ about that too. See, I got money. From the train. I got _all_ the money. I hid it before I came out here, and I was thinkin’ since you own that property down in the valley, we could build a ranch there. That’s better than trappin’ and keepin’ a couple goats, right? You’know, kinda like we was rentin’ land from you. And that way it ain’t gonna cause no suspicion. Just a good friend from back home, moved out here with his wife and kid. Nobody’d be none the wiser. And you could stay here if you wanted, or you could move in with us. The three of us could keep a small ranch goin’, and Jack’d have folks to look after him, and we’d – everything’d be – it’d be fine.”

“You really think that’d work out, John?”

“I do.”

“It sounds like a stupid plan to me.”

“Why?”

“Because people get jealous and spiteful and that’s a quick way to break up a family.”

“I told you, we done this before and it worked _fine_. I ain’t that way, Abigail ain’t that way – don’t figure you are neither, are you?”

Arthur swallowed. “Do you even know how to run a ranch?”

“I could learn. Hell, Arthur. Is it gonna hurt to try? I know you’re lonely out here, you must want some kinda family. This’d be good. For everybody. We need you as much as you need us, and I really don’t – I don’t wanna leave you. You don’t even have to do anything, just meet them. And if it’s too weird, well, then we’ll figure something else out. We’ll pick up and go or… or I don’t know. We’ll figure it out.”

Arthur looked back at his hands again. He felt John shifting closer, felt his hand on his lower back, and sighed. It was absurd. It was a stupid idea, and it wasn’t going to work out. There were a million reasons it wouldn’t work, and he nursed the cold sting of John putting him in this position when he could have easily broached topic of his being married long ago.

But still. It couldn’t really hurt to meet them. He was lonely, and John – for as much of a walking tragedy of a man as he was, John was painfully perfect.

“You think she’s gonna like me, huh.”

“I know she is.”

“Guess you better bring her here, then,” Arthur sighed and shook his head.

John leaned and Arthur felt him grinning against his shoulder. He couldn’t stop himself smiling a little at his excitement. “Just to put it out there, this is the kinda thing you oughta tell me about right off the bat. For future reference. Normally this is the kinda thing you talk about before you take up with somebody.”

“If I’d known you knew I was lyin’, I woulda told you the first day. Didn’t wanna chance you exposin’ me and puttin’ her at risk, and then we was – I couldn’t read you. I didn’t really know how to talk to you about it. Can’t blame me for that, can you?”

“Naw, but there’s plenty more I can. How d’you plan on tellin’ her – wait. Does she even know you’re alive? You been here over a month, and I ain’t seen you post anything. You never asked me to post anything, have you – you ain’t written to her, have you?”

“I mean, I ain’t sent anything, but I got it written out-”

“Jesus, John. You are an idiot,” Arthur growled, slapping John’s leg hard enough that it must have hurt. John smiled anyway.

“You two are gonna get along perfect.”

“Where she at? I feel like I gotta go apologize on your behalf.”

“It’s _fine_. She set out with Jack a few months ago. We’d been plannin’ on leaving the gang, just had to get enough money to get away and set up a life for ourselves. She’s out with a friend down near Hennigan’s stead. I’m sure she’s read about the train, but Abigail, she’s smart. She’s stayin’ put, even if she’s afraid. She’ll wait until it don’t make sense to wait no more. And she’ll be mad as hell I didn’t write sooner.”

John’s voice turned soft when he talked about how smart Abigail was, and Arthur felt something in his chest twinge. It wasn’t jealousy. It wasn’t even bad – he actually liked watching John affected like that. Maybe John wasn’t so crazy to think they could all get on well together. “You two are close, huh.”

“Not that you’d know it hearin’ us talk, but yeah. We are. She’s my best friend,” John nodded. He sat back and looped his arms around his knees, studying his fingernails. Arthur let himself relax back against the wall, even though his stomach was still clenched uncomfortably. “I didn’t really know… how normal people loved each other before her, y’know? My dad wasn’t around and my mom – she tried her best. She really did. But then she died, and Dutch found me out on the street. He raised me, taught me to read. Taught me – I was gonna say right and wrong, but that ain’t true. He taught me what to value, I guess.”

“What’s that, then?” Arthur already knew. The story was familiar to him. _Love above all things, Arthur. Love and freedom._

“Family. Love. Equality. Shit, in retrospect it was all just fancy words. Maybe he don’t believe any of it, and it was just some ploy to get little orphan kids to follow him around and take orders. I think he believed it, though, just his perceptions of reality… ain’t quite right. Anyway. Whatever fucked up bond Dutch made, that was family to me. And then Abigail showed up.”

“What made you two decide to leave?”

“Like I said, Dutch’s perceptions of reality ain’t quite right. They get worse when Micah Bell gets on his good side. Money was scarce, weren’t much food or supplies. Started workin’ out that folks were dyin’ on jobs, or bailin’ after ‘em. Just bad plannin’. And then Dutch – he shot a kid. And he’d always told us, you don’t shoot innocents. Feed who needs feedin’, fight who needs fightin’, do what needs doin’. And the fightin’ was reserved for folks who were out to get us – other gangs, lawmen, that kinda thing. But then he shot that kid and he didn’t seem to care, he just made excuses about it, and I couldn’t convince myself to stay no more. Neither could Abigail, especially not when it was gettin’ to be that even without us eatin’ much Jack wasn’t gettin’ enough food. So she took off, and I made like she’d left me, and told her I’d meet her after I got enough money.”

Arthur nodded, not sure there was anything he could say. John took it in a way he didn’t mean.

“I know I ain’t a good man,” he said. “I done awful things to people who probably didn’t deserve it. But I wanna try and be better.”

“People change, John. You don’t have to be tied to the man you were. You don’t have to try and make up for it. Just be better. That’s all you gotta do.”

“Did you do better? Ain’t hard to imagine you used to be, y’know.”

“Like you?”

“Yeah.”

Arthur watched him carefully, and suddenly felt old, and tired. He rubbed his eyes. “I don’t know. Maybe. But I ain’t lived much of a life since I left the bad one behind.”

“Maybe we’ll help each other.”

“Maybe.”

“Arthur?”

“John.”

“Come on and lie down.”

Arthur thought about protesting on the grounds that John had a wife, and had lied to him and that things were confusing, but couldn’t muster the energy, and John’s hand was back on his cheek. The sensation was comforting and Arthur was beginning to think it could convince him of anything. He found himself half on top of John again, listening to his heart thudding in his chest like the rain beating on the roof, feeling fingers in his hair. The fingers drifted to his back and ran themselves over scars.

“I can’t figure out who the hell you are,” John said.

He didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure John really expected one.

 

 

* * *

 

 

John cast him a wary look. “Don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“If you expect to make this your home, you gotta get friendly with the neighbors. Now I agree, goin’ into town right now don’t make sense. You got those scars and the second somebody there sees you, they’re gonna talk, and if your old crew’s still local they’ll find you out immediately. Right?”

“Yeah.”

“But Mrs. Adler’ll keep quite and she’ll post that letter for you, and you can meet the rest of them and get yourself familiar. Maybe catch up with Charles, explain things so he doesn’t think you’re liable to murder me in my sleep.”

“If they don’t shoot me on sight, seein’ me riding across the valley on your horse, without you.”

“You’ll be fine,” Arthur rolled his eyes and shoved a piece of paper at John. “They ain’t in the habit of shootin’ first.”

“What’s this?”

“Note for Mrs. Adler tellin’ her not to shoot you.”

“ _Thanks_ ,” John scoffed. Arthur huffed a laugh and grinned.

“Get on, now. Get word to your wife so we can get started on that house and I can quit wonderin’ if she’ll wanna murder me or if the whole situation’s gonna be as weird and fucked up as I think it is.”

“Murder you? Naw. Me, maybe, but you’ll be fine. She’s just gonna thank you for savin’ my idiot ass so she can kill me proper. And she’ll say it just like that too.”

“That ain’t funny.”

“Sure it is,” John grinned, and tugged on Arthur’s belt. Arthur was unable to resist kissing him, but did manage to push at his chest.

“ _Get_ , dumbass. Quit botherin’ me.”

“Alright, old man, have it your way,” John released him, kissing Arthur again before moving back to mount the horse. She shifted nervously under him, unused to the weight, but John was good with horses. He calmed her quickly, and Arthur watched him ride off still grinning.

Arthur had woken up earlier and taken care of the goats, and the chickens. Now it was just a matter of the traps, and he grabbed his rifle and set off to check them, but he struggled to move. A sensation of panic had settled on him again without John’s contagious and unfounded optimism there to distract him - there were so many unknowns. John’s wife, the idea that they would be moving up to his property blindly. There had been points where he’d missed living in a gang, namely the sensation of a big family, but he wasn’t sure something like what John as proposing could actually work. And of course, if John was wrong, and they didn’t get along or if they just plain weren’t interested in each other in any way, he’d be on his own again - a prospect he admitted he was not excited about.

He shook his head, and spurred his feet to move, starting out to work again. Focus on the task at hand. The sound of the water dripping through the leaves, birds singing. The way his feet dug into the mud. Arthur found the first empty trap and leaned against the tree it was placed beside, and – for the first time in a long time – found a more grounding thought than the present.

In his mind’s eye, Abigail was a tall and reedy woman, with long dark hair and bright eyes. She was smart, with a wicked sense of humor just like John but much quicker. Better at planning. Strong and opinionated – Arthur couldn’t imagine John happy with a timid woman. And John was right – they took to each other immediately. And Arthur didn’t make such a bad guardian for Jack. The house that he and John built was modest but beautiful. He imagined a time not too far in the future where he came home to the sensation of family, and thought it was sad Hosea wouldn’t see it. He would have liked John, and Arthur smiled imagining the look of surprise that would have been on his face when he heard Arthur was living a quiet life _in a house_ with a _family_ , not causing any trouble at all.

The traps were all empty, and Arthur assumed the storm had kept most animals under shelter since he’d set them. Another day, maybe. He still needed a decent fox. Still, Arthur felt light walking back to the cabin and up the front steps and couldn’t bring himself to be bothered by the traps at all. Not when he had that stupid warm feeling in his chest, thinking about John’s hand on his cheek, and all the good could-be’s.

It was just his luck, he figured, the day he finally let himself start thinking along those lines would be the same day he found Micah Bell standing in his cabin.

“Hey there, cowpoke. How’s our money treatin’ you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> BET YOU REALLY WISH YOU HAD THAT DOG NOW, HUH, ARTHUR.  
> Let's be real though Micah is a garbage human and he would have killed the dog. Leading, of course, to an RDR2/John Wick crossover, who's with me.


	6. Chapter 6

The years had not treated Micah well. The last time Arthur had seen him he was fit and  almost annoyingly capable despite his  many off-putting qualities. Now his gut was soft and his face was lined – he felt like if he’d never met him  before , he would  still  avoid him in a bar at all costs. He wondered how Micah had maintained  any amount of weight when John was bone thin, and then realized he knew exactly how. John hadn’t eaten because he wanted to make sure the people around him ate instead, and he knew that because he would have done the same thing. Micah didn’t give half a shit.  He imagined Dutch looked about as healthy.

“If I had it, I’m sure it’d be treatin’ me just fine. All I took with me was mine,” Arthur grunted, gripping the rifle in his hand. It was useless, lowered at his side like it had been when he entered. Micah had been a fast draw years ago, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to gamble that that had changed.

“Cute, Morgan. Where’s John run off to? That ranch down in the valley? Maybe we’ll have to pay them a visit next.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, Micah.”

“Cut the shit. I was lookin’ forward to never having to hear your bitchin’ and moanin’ ever again, you think I’d waste my time on you if I didn’t know he was here? Painful as that was to watch this morning. I expected that kinda thing from John, but you? Never pinned you for a man prone to _unnatural inclinations_ , though it certainly does explain a few things. Now, were you two in on it from the start? You plan that whole train robbery out, or is this just… happy coincidence?” 

Arthur moved to raise his rifle,  and Micah had a  gun on him immediately. 

“Put it down, like a good boy.”

His first thought as he set the rifle down was that this was about as bad as it could get. The second was that he was wrong, because Dutch must be close, and it could get so much worse. Micah was moving around his cabin like he was toying with an injured animal, and in many ways Arthur figured that was right. Arthur had seen plenty of injured animals get themselves out of worse situations.

“Your money’s long gone. You ain’t gettin’ it back,” he said, taking a few cautious steps forward towards his table. Micah didn’t stop him, comfortable behind his revolver. 

“I have a hard time believing even John Marston could blow throw that much cash.”

“Idiot lost it in a river. There ain’t none left. Just your luck, can’t even keep a hold on the money from one of what, a half dozen plans that actually went well? Pathetic.”

“Awful big talk from a man without a gun.”

“It really is.” 

H e hooked the toe of his boot under the chair in front of him and kicked it at Micah’s chest, sending him sprawling backwards. The gun went off and a bullet lodged itself in his ceiling, and when Micah hit the ground the gun went sliding off to a corner of the room. Arthur moved as fast as he co uld , which was faster than Mi cah could get up  or grab his off-hand gun , and did what he’d wanted to do since he’d had the misfortune of meeting the piece of shit:  Arthur punched him right in the face. 

L ots of things came rushing back to  him all at once,  and many of them were things he thought he’d let go of a long time ago. Memories like the crushing moment when he realized  that the person he knew as  Dutch was gone, that any warmth he displayed was all an act designed to get Arthur to do what he wanted – he still didn’t know if it had all been an act, or if Dutch’s confidence was so shaken by his failures that he’d just lost the plot. The memory of digging a grave for Hosea in the thick Lemoyne air  after that terrible job in Saint Denis , how Dutch hadn’t even cried, how hard it was to leave him in that god damn swamp. Realizing a future with Mary was impossible, writing the letter that said he was going away and would never be back. All of this and more, because Micah had wormed his way into Dutch’s ear – and now here he was. Here  _they_ were, ready to rip his life out of his hands again. John’s life out of his hands. John deserved a chance- his wife and child deserved a chance at really having something. 

Arthur hadn’t accomplished much with his life, but if he could take an obstacle out of the Marstons’ paths he’d count his time on earth as a success.

It wasn’t hard to overwhelm Micah. Arthur was healthy and he was fit, and Micah did not have the upper hand to start with  or a way to get to his second gun,  and so didn’t stand much of a chanc e.  He also didn’t have Arthur’s sudden and unbridled rage – his pulse pounded in his ears and he knew he was shouting, growling like a wild animal. He knew the skin on his knuckles split on impact with Micah’s cheek, but he didn’t care.  Arthur didn’t think it was too hard to wrap his hands around the snake’s throat and squeeze, watching him turn red and then purple. Arthur didn’t even think it was that hard to ignore the feeling  of Micah’s knife digging into his side. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or th e  satisfaction of knowing John would be  _fine_ . Arthur couldn’t say. 

B y the time he realized Micah was gone, his arms were shaking violently. The adrenaline faded quickly, and every breath became painful. He reached for the hilt of the blade and tugged, yelling as it slid free of his body. Blood accompanied it, and hit the ground with a wet smack, and he moved off to one side of Micah’s body and pulled himself back towards the wall. As easy as everything else had been, this was a struggle. A struggle to breathe, to move, to think of anything at all. When he finally reached the corner he curled in on himself on the ground, and tried his hardest to call John’s face to his mind. 

“I’d heard rumors,” a voice said, “that you were up here. Never expected they were true, or I would have found you and brought you home years ago.”

Arthur pushed himself up to sit, and looked back at Dutch van der Linde standing in his open door.

  


 

* * *

 

  


The trip to Hanging Dog Ranch hadn’t gone quite as smoothly as Arthur had assured him it would. Charles  was there but unhelpful, leaning silently against the house and watching him ,  and the tall blond woman that John recognized as Mrs. Adler only by her voice was less than thrilled to  see him on Arthur’s horse. John had even offered her the paper that Arthur had given him, and she’d neglected to take it, holding him at gunpoint. 

“Look, Mrs. Adler,” John said, holding his hands up. “I don’t know what else to tell you. Arthur _sent me down here_. I been up with him a good month or so.”

“He didn’t mention you.”

“Yeah, well. You know Arthur. He’s kinda… private.”

“Well, that is true. But I can’t imagine Arthur lettin’ anybody on that horse.”

“Lady, he clearly did. Don’t know what kinda man you think I am, but it’d take a lot more of me to kill a fella like Arthur.”

“How about we take a ride back to ask him ourselves, Mr. Milton? Or was it Marston?”

John flicked his eyes to Charles, who offered him no expression. He supposed he couldn’t blame Charles. “It’s Marston. John Marston.”

“Alright, Mr. Marston, let’s take a ride. And then I’ll post that letter of yours, if Arthur’s alive and well.”

“Please, be my guest,” John shook his head, gesturing up back towards the foothills. He could feel a muscle in his jaw starting to twitch, trying to keep his tempter under control talking to this woman. 

“You stay right there. And just to make it _painfully_ clear _:_ if we get there, and you’ve done anything to Arthur, I will castrate you.”

“Yeah. I got that impression.”

Mrs. Adler nodded, lowered her gun, and went to get her horse.  Charles pushed himself off the house, and John gripped the reigns in his hands. 

“Figure we oughta catch up, ourselves,” John said.

“Maybe when you get back. If Sadie hasn’t killed you,” Charles said.

The ride back up the hill was silent. He felt Sadie glaring daggers in his back the whole time, and thought it was pretty likely she might shoot him before they got to Arthur’s cabin. What a way to go, John thought. And he didn’t even do anything wrong this time. At least he’d gotten a chance to have Arthur’s mouth on him before he went.

He was the first one to see the white horse outside Arthur’s  cabin, paired with another animal he didn’t recognize. Micah must have stolen another horse since John had made off with his and sent it running – but he absolutely recognized the Count. He held up a hand for Sadie to stop, and he must have looked panicked because her concern was immediate. 

“Who he hell’s here?” she whispered. John dismounted as quietly as he could manage.

“That’s Dutch van der Linde’s horse, Mrs. Adler.”

“Shit.”

“And I don’t got a gun.”

Sadie flung her leg off the horse and dropped to the ground, and John felt cowed by the intensity of the glare he was met with. “Of course you don’t. Waste of space – I guess I’ll have to handle this.”

“Unless you wanna give me that six shooter.”

“Over my dead body.”

Sadie held up a finger to shut him up before he could talk again, and then crouched low to the ground and approached the cabin totally silently. John wondered where the hell Sadie had come from, and how Arthur had managed to end up next to so many… similarly experienced individuals. As they crept closer to the cabin, he began to hear voices. Arthur’s was audible first, throaty and constrained like he was in pain. It made John’s skin turn cold.

“Funny that you think you can get answer out of a dyin’ man. You ain’t that good.”

“You were never so obstinate when you were younger. Not with me. What changed, Arthur?”

“When I was younger I thought you walked on water. Now I know ain’t no man who can do that, and you’re just a sad old fool chasin’ after somethin’ he never had to begin with.”

They heard Dutch give an aborted sounding laugh, and he sighed. “You g rew into a fine man  out here,  son . I am – I’m sorry.  I truly am .”

“Don’t lie – you ain’t. Not in any way that matters to me.” 

“I know that ain’t true. Where’s John.”

Arthu r ,  tight and strained , “Fuck you.”

“I’ll find him eventually. I’ll make it easy on him if you tell me where he is.”

“I ain’t that gullible no more.” 

Dutch made a noise of consideration, and stood. “He’ll come back for you, and I’ll wait.”

“He ain’t comin’ back for me, Dutch. He’s gone. Long gone.”

“Who’s tellin’ lies now, Arthur? I know him like I know you. He’ll be back.”

John had just enough time to contemplate what he was going to do. Just enough time to panic wondering what had happened in the hour  and a half  he was gone,  how every glimmer of hope he  had  had could possibly disappear in that time. Just enough time to mov e his hand to the place his gun should be  on his hip ,  before the door opened and shots rang out. Dutch took a few steps and looked over at them, confused, before he fell dead to the ground, and John looked behind him to see Sadie shoving her revolver back in its holster. 

“Tired of this macho bandit bullshit,” she spat, kicking Dutch’s legs away from the door violently. John blinked, a feeling between relief and nausea joining the brewing mix of emotion in his gut. Sadie wasn’t having it. “You gonna just sit there? Move! Get in there and see to him!”

John did. He scrambled around Dutch and did his best to shove any thought that wasn’t about making sure Arthur was okay out of his mind. No thoughts spared for the man he had been raised by – there wasn’t time for it. Inside Arthur was laughing, and it had that tight tone to it. He was still laughing when John had stumbled over Micah’s body and landed on his knees next to him and found him pale and bleeding heavily. Blood seeped from the wound in his side he was clutching, spilling between his fingers. 

“Jesus, Arthur.”

“Told you Hangin’ Dog Ranch was a good idea,” Arthur said, still laughing.

John looked back over his shoulder, and saw Mrs. Adler standing in the door looking – looking a way he couldn’t imagine she looked very often. Panic rose up in his throat again. “What do we do?”

She shook her head, like she was going to try to tell him there was nothing to do – but she stopped herself. “Get him up – we’ll take him to Lenny, he can do some doctorin’. Arthur, you’re gonna be fine.”

“I ain’t,” Arthur said, and his laugh quieted to something dismissive before stopping completely. He moved his free hand to the back of John’s neck, snapping the younger man’s attention back to him. “Listen to me, John. This land is yours. You bring your family up here, and you settle down.” 

“Shut up,” John said, getting up enough to pull Arthur to his feet. “You heard the lady, move. Help me out a little here, Arthur.”

“John.”

“Fuckin’ _try_ , god damn you!” John shouted. He couldn’t stop himself – Arthur just looked at him tiredly. 

“Problem ridin’ with Dutch is pretty soon you can’t tell the difference between a plan that’s worth the time and effort and a fool’s errand. I’m done, John.”

John went back down to his knees and leaned in, hand still locked around Arthur’s forearm. “Just try.  Worst case, you die outside on a horse and not in this place with… that.” John gestured behind him at Micah’s body. Arthu r’s lips twitched into a smile. 

He took that as a sign to go ahead, and looked back at Sadie. She was watching with her mouth drawn tight, hands on her hips. “Wanna give me a hand?”

Getting Arthur into the saddle was painful and hard, but John barely remembered it. He didn’t really remember much of the ride back, either \- riding double with Arthur must have been uncomfortable because Arthur was a big guy, and they’d put him in front so he didn’t fall off, but it wasn’t something he could recall later. He remembered he had ridden with one hand on the reigns and the other around Arthur’s waist, and he remembered that Arthur’s head had lolled as he struggled to stay awake, and that the hand that clutched at his forearm was cold and sticky with drying blood. John remembered the warmth seeping into his clothes as Arthur bled. He remembered digging his heels into the horse’s flesh, as if it could possibly run any faster. 

They made it on to the property, Sadie well ahead of him and calling out for help, before Arthur started to slump heavily and slip out of Arthur’s grasp. John had enough presence of mind to slow the horse as quickly as possible, and latch on to Arthur to slow his fall. He was too heavy to stop completely, and instead John could only lower them to the ground clumsily and only half-controlled – Arthur lay on his back struggling to breathe, looking pale and distant. John registered people running towards him as he crouched over Arthur, pleading with him to stay awake.

Arthur wasn’t listening to him. He wasn’t even sure Arthur understood what was happening – he just gazed at John, quickly loosing focus. John put his hand on Arthur’s cheek and kept pleading anyway.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At first I was just going to post the previous chapter, but then I realized this was a much more painful cliffhanger to end on, so this went up too. I told you there was pain.
> 
> Side-note, while it's really obvious that I hate Micah, I actually super love Dutch. He's such a good character, the little shit. I had actually wanted to flesh him out more in this, but there just wasn't space. Figure'd I'd throw that out there, because he only shows up briefly to die and if I could have found a way that didn't compromise my already shaky structure he'd be around a whole lot more. Such a good, terrible dad.


	7. Chapter 7

The first night he spent in that cabin, Arthur had cried.

He’d never really cried much before that. He hadn’t when his mother had died, or when he saw his father swinging from a rope. He hadn’t cried for Isaac and Eliza, even with Dutch there grasping his shoulder and murmuring assurances back when Dutch did those kinds of things. He hadn’t been able cry to at Hosea’s funeral, or when he rode away from camp that same night with his few possessions and his and what would have been Hosea’s take from the bank robbery. He didn’t cry when he wrote that letter to Mary. Arthur had always been better at biting the insides of his cheeks and swallowing everything until it became anger. It was anger that had brought him to Dutch and Hosea in the first place, a spitting ball of misdirected fury picking pockets in some dirty western town he no longer remembered. Anger had made him Dutch’s sharpest tool. Anger was even why he could read and write– he had sat furiously copying letter forms, trying to prove Dutch wrong after he had sighed and said the endeavor to teach him was useless, which Hosea had told him later was entirely planned to provoke that response. Anger had made him follow through on his promise to Hosea, to get away and move somewhere quiet.

But that first night in the cabin, Arthur had wept until he was sick, until his eyes felt raw and his lungs burned from the force of his sobbing. He had cried for all the people he’d lost, for the future that Dutch had let Micah take from him. He cried for the family he no longer had. He’d cried until he couldn’t anymore, and after he could breathe normally again he’d gotten up, and he hadn’t cried out of sadness since. He’d let it build up until he couldn’t handle it anymore, and then he’d expelled it all until he didn’t have the feeling left in him anymore. That’s what he’d told himself, anyway.

For all of his faults, for all of his stubborn stupidity and blind optimism and rage, John was smarter than that. John was too full of emotion and without the sense to control it, and the tears would come unbidden even if he fought against them. It was a strength as much as a weakness – when he was younger Arthur wouldn’t have seen it that way, but he did now. John lived a fuller life than Arthur ever could. If he’d had more awareness at the time, he would have felt guilty making John cry as he lay in the tall grass outside Hanging Dog Ranch bleeding and he would have told him off for it. Surely he wasn’t worth all that emotional labor – surely a man he had known for just over a month, one who had lied to him and played almost all his cards close, wasn’t _that_ important. As it was, Arthur had felt strangely comforted by the whole thing. It wasn’t such a bad way to die, he thought, with John crying over him and running his fingers along his cheek.

He thought a few times after his vision had gone that death was strangely comforting too. Sometimes it felt like burning and searing pain and fever, but for the most part it felt familiar and pleasantly warm. Death sounded like Charles and Sadie talking in the distance, quiet and comforting murmurs, the sound of John’s rasping voice confessing things about his life that Arthur could never remember. Death felt like calloused hands stroking his fingers and his cheek, the heavy press of blankets on his chest. Death smelled like Tilly’s perfume, like the tobacco and leather that clung to John’s skin.

Death looked like a blurry version of Sadie’s guest bedroom.

“Hey, big man,” Tilly said, and when Arthur turned his head to look toward her, everything hurt.

He opened his mouth to speak, but realized his tongue had turned to dust sometime between learning what death felt like and what it looked like. Was he dead? He couldn’t tell. Tilly seemed to understand what he needed and cool metal touched his lips, followed by the smallest trace of water. He drank until there was no more to drink, and took as deep a breath as he could manage. A deep, stabbing pain congratulated him on his consciousness as he inhaled.

“We thought you were a goner,” Tilly put her hand on his shoulder, and Arthur reached to touch it with his fingers and found himself exhausted by the movement. “Thought about gettin’ a reverend out here, but Sadie didn’t think you’d appreciate that at all. I did figure you’d wanna be buried right, though, so I mighta told John your proper name. Hope you ain’t too betrayed.”

Arthur smiled a little, even though it hurt, and looked at her again. “Not at all, Miss Tilly. How long…?”

“You were out cold for almost four days, been comin’ in and out about two weeks. Had a bad fever for a while, we had to send for the doctor from Strawberry after Lenny fixed you up. Don’t know how you made it, with all that blood you lost. You was white as a sheet when you got here, Arthur, it was the most frightening sight on the face of the earth. You must be the most stubborn man on the planet.”

“I been told that before. Where’s-”

“John? He’s down in Strawberry with Sadie, most everybody else’s asleep. We been takin’ care of things for you while you been restin’, so don’t go feelin’ like you gotta jump outta bed or nothin’ stupid like that. Might be lucky you was down for the count for so long, stitch’s ain’t been ripped and you’re healin’ up pretty good.”

“Strawberry?”

“Mhm. Not much to hide out from now that those men are dead. Think they were goin’ to look at a house catalog, if I heard right. Probably answer a few more questions for Roscoe. Him and his boys came and got the bodies from your cabin and Sadie and John talked to them, but I’m sure they’ve thought of more dumb questions in the mean time.”

“He alright?”

“Not really,” Sadie said, and Arthur thought he saw her smiling. “He’s been real worried about you. Had a hard time gettin’ him outta this room the first few days. I’m pretty sure Sadie had him go look at houses with her just so she could get his mind on somethin’ that wasn’t you dyin’. Had a hard time gettin’ anybody out of this room, tell you the truth.”

Arthur had a lot he wanted to say. He had the sudden urge to take advantage of the offer she’d made to him, to tell her everything about himself – about Dutch, and Hosea, and all his friends who had died, and all the lives he hadn’t lived and how all he wanted was for John and his family to get free just like she and Lenny and Charles had. He wanted to tell her thank you, that she’d been so important to him. But his throat was dry and tight with what turned out to be tears, and so he just stretched out his fingers and held her hand and cried, and didn’t stop even when she brushed tears off his cheeks and said “oh, Arthur” in her gentlest voice.

Death had stripped his sense of time, and he didn’t know how long he spent crying with Tilly sat beside him and stroking his hair. When he opened his eyes next, it was the morning and the sun was coming into his empty room, soft and glowing through the parted curtain. He was alone, and there was a full cup of water beside the bed, along with his unlatched journal and a stub of a pencil. Arthur wondered, through the fog that came with sleeping for too long, if anybody had looked inside. His side ached where he’d been stabbed, and his eyes felt heavy and strange and his mouth was dry still, but he felt less like every nerve in his body was on fire and tingling.

There was talking in the house. Doors opening and closing, the smell of coffee. He heard a voice that had to be John’s, rasp audible even from a distance through several feet of wood, and a few moments after that came what sounded like a bison trampling up the stairs to his room. John came barreling through the door, uncoordinated in his haste and followed by a chorus of “Jesus Christ, Marston!”s from downstairs.

He froze and stared at Arthur as he met his gaze, dark eyes wide and desperate. John was a wild animal. All of them were, really, Arthur thought. A bunch of wolves trying to fit in with real people.

“You in a rush or somethin’?” Arthur croaked, and John sprang to life.

“You son of a bitch,” he spat, and Arthur watched him fume. “You coulda told me you knew them! You coulda just said right from the start, hey John, I know those jackasses, how about you and I get the hell out of here before somethin’ bad happens! Or at least when we was, y’know, _talkin’_ about these things already! Where do you get off gettin’ mad at me for lyin’ when you been doin’ it the whole time!”

“Couldn’t’ve said that to you. Didn’t know your name was John.”

“You _son of a bitch,_ that ain’t funny,” John fumed, even as Arthur gave him a crooked smile.

John was asking him questions he didn’t really want answers to – he just wanted to rage, wanted to grasp for anger. He kept going and Arthur lost track of what he was saying, focused instead on the sight of him stalking the room, furious and beautiful even with his stubble and the circles under his eyes and the obvious exhaustion. He watched and smiled, until he could tell that John was losing his sense of direction, until most of what he was saying were curses and frustrated space filled by gesticulation. Arthur held up his hand in a gesture for John to come over, and John approached still spitting venom, sinking to his knees by the bed.

“Don’t you _ever_ try to get me to leave you behind again, do you understand me? You don’t get to do that shit. It ain’t fair. You don’t get to play hero and die and act like it’s not a big deal. I don’t need you bein’ a hero, I need you bein’ alive.”

“Alright, John.”

“I got a letter for you, from Abigail, in case you lived. I told her what a god damned idiot you were.”

“How’d that go?”

“Mad as hell at me and thankful I found you, just like I said she’d be. Said for me to send for her if I got a house built and wants you to write her if you made – if you feel up to it. Didn’t read what she wrote for you but I hope she tells you what a god damn fool you acted like. Woman could make God himself feel ashamed for stupidity.”

“Didn’t read a letter but you read through my journal?”

A muscle in John’s clenched jaw spasmed a little, and his mouth formed a tight line. “I just - you were dyin’.”

He said it like that explained everything. John’s eyes were bright and his brow was furrowed like he was mad, but he’d lost all his angry tension. Instead, Arthur found himself looking at the limits of John’s expression – when there was no anger left, when the immediate cause for sorrow was gone, John didn’t have the vocabulary to process things. He held his arm out away from his body and the younger man leaned forward without protest and buried his face in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder, letting Arthur loop his forearm loosely around his neck. His shoulders shook. Arthur felt the quick and sharp breaths he knew accompanied tears against his shoulder.

“You’re pretty good at drawin’,” John sniffed.

Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed about what John must have seen in that journal. Trees and birds and structures and strangers and friends, slowly morphing into a multitude of Johns until that was what most of the pages were comprised of. If he was less exhausted, maybe he’d be ashamed. He let a rumbling sigh out and turned his head towards John, and kept his tone as light as he could manage. “One of my few natural skills. But John, if you ever look in that book again I’ll shoot you where you stand. Pain in the ass.”

“Kind of an empty threat after you went and got stabbed on account of me, Arthur. Can’t say I believe it.”

“Try me, kid.”

John’s shoulders shook a little with a stifled laugh, and he continued to cry. He had brought his arm around and over Arthur’s chest and his fingers had found Arthur’s hair, but he touched him like he was afraid he’d break. It was a soft kind of gesture, the kind that he’d been bad at making when he was John’s age, the kind he’d rarely felt himself. He knew Hosea had touched him that lovingly, mostly while handling him after a bad fight. Despite how much he wanted to deny it, Dutch probably had to – but it wasn’t the time to think about Dutch. That would have to come later. Arthur was tired, and he’d wasted time, but he still had enough space left to change for the better. Enough time to make Hosea proud.

“I’m alright,” he said, and even though the move stretched his side painfully he tilted so he could press his lips against John’s cheek. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, John.”

John nodded, but didn’t move or touch him any less gently. Arthur rested his cheek against John’s head, and smiled a little when he finally spoke. “Seems like we got a lot to talk about, Arthur Morgan.”

“Seems like we do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil baby chapter! I'll be posting the next one within the next twenty minutes, pending potential editing issues. 
> 
> Thanks to everybody who has read and commented <3


	8. Chapter 8

Abigail had heard a rumor that Dutch’s body was going to be embalmed and displayed like Jesse James, and it made her angry in a way she couldn’t articulate. He’d probably like that, the egotistical bastard that he was. Sure, he’d rant about the indignity of it, about how the only thing the civilized world likes is a dead outlaw, but she thought really, he’d love the attention. The sensation of martyrdom. It felt like he’d won something, even though he had died with nothing.

“Just ‘cause I can run circles around you don’t mean I’m a kid, old man!” 

“Whatever makes you feel better, Johnny – Jesus!”

Abigail looked up from the kitchen sink and out the window to find that she was observing two full-grown idiots rolling around in the mud like children, being barked at by an equally muddy dog. Her mouth twitched into a smile, watching them push and shove each other in the mud, before she realized they’d soon be tracking it all over her floor. She dropped the dishes in the sink and tossed her apron on the counter, running past Jack who sat reading at the kitchen table.

“What’s wrong, mama?”

“Nothin’, Jack, don’t you mind me. You sit there and keep on readin’, and I’ll be right back.”

Abigail ran out to the back porch, stepping out into the yard so she could pull them off each other if they didn’t listen, and maybe slap John right in his stupid face. “ What are you two fools doing? You should be ashamed of yourself,  John , get up outta that mud!” 

“He started it!” John said, wriggling in Arthur’s muddied grasp to try and get away. Arthur was laughing deeply, scrambling after him even as Abigail stood there, ignoring John’s hands pushing at his face.

“Don’t you lie to me, John Marston, I saw exactly wh-”

She was cut off, slipping back and falling hard in the muddy yard. She heard John laugh in a way she _knew_ was paired with pointing before making a sputtering noise, and then suddenly Arthur’s massive hands were lifting her back up onto her feet, and she was breathless laughing, herself. She let him pull her against him in a one-armed hug, feeling his laugh rumbling deep in his chest.

It had taken her some time to get over the fact that of all the places John had found and wanted to settle in, it was amongst other ex-outlaws and in particular with one who had been raised by Dutch as well. Accepting it wasn’t hard, because John was a stupid man with bad foresight and an inability to analyze any of his own choices beyond the surface, but getting over it was. She had known who Arthur was before John fully explained it – his first letter had referred to him only by his first name, as a man who had ridden with Dutch when the gang was in its prime, and that had been enough for her to know. Her very first week in camp she had stayed in Dutch’s tent and had seen a photo of him from years prior with an older man and a younger one, the words _Arthur and Hosea,_ _1882_ written on the back. He hadn’t been mad at her for picking up the photo, and when she asked who they were he had told her they’d been his family once, a son and a partner. There were very few Arthurs who had ridden with Dutch, to her knowledge. Leave it to John to find gang’s wayward son and get awfully friendly with him. 

All of that doubt had been put to bed eventually, after a dozen letters’ worth of correspondence with Arthur and another few months to stew on the whole situation. John had told her he had actually managed to build a house, with everybody’s help, and she set her remaining doubts aside long enough to get herself and Jack on a coach. Once she had shown up and realized that Charles and Tilly and Lenny had no impulse to return to their previous lives and that the support system they provided was unique. Sadie’s clear intolerance for anything that even resembled what Abigail would call _gang activity_ was reassuring. And Arthur – after those letters from Arthur and one or two from John that illustrated how awed he was by him, she felt predisposed to like him before she’d even arrived. Knowing he’d taken a knife for her husband and that he seemed to be as considerate as a man could come made a difference, and it was almost reassuring thinking that he knew where John and Abigail had been and what they’d seen with Dutch without even having to say it. When she’d first gotten to the ranch, when the house was newly built and Arthur was a mysterious figure who kept a nervous and respectful distance, it had been easy to remember that none of them would be there if it wasn’t for him. 

Abigail wasn’t certain she’d have ever seen John again  without Arthur’s intervention  – she’d have been left a single mother because the fool had died, destitute and in an even worse position than the one she’d been in before meeting up with Dutch in the first place. She certainly wouldn’t have a house, because Lord knew John couldn’t get his life together on his own. She would not be living a life she’d once thought impossible –  a woman with a home and a family, and a proper source of income . 

She and Arthur had crossed paths briefly when she first arrived on the ranch, Arthur heading out to hunt as Mrs. Adler had brought her in from Strawberry, and  despite their previous correspondence they  had stayed somewhat distant for the first few weeks so it was easy for her to keep thinking of him as a strangely mythical figure. A good-luck charm, a gift from a god that had been otherwise negligent towards her little family. And then they’d gotten used to each other,  gotten friendly and then fond and then enamored, and Arthur had become as much a fixture of her life as anybody else and it got easy to let all of that  overwhelming gratitude settle  until it became a quiet backdrop .  S ometimes it struck her hard and brought her to tears – normally in the privacy of her bedroom, or in a place where she could watch him and John from a distance or catch him taking Jack fishing just as they crossed the border of the property and hide her outburst. 

Once  only a week or two after her arrival , Arthur  had come home before dawn when she was sat in her living room  and crying , wiping at her face over a cup of coffee. Jack and John were both still asleep, and she’d been shocked  by Arthur’s quiet entrance. She knew he was still sleeping  elsewhere most of the time despite the fact that he had his own room and it was his damn property,  because he had some wildly unfounded idea that she and John needed more time alone together . If he’d bothered to ask her, she’d have told him that the first night was more than enough. It didn’t do for any person to take too much of John Marston in one sitting  unless they wanted to be frustrated to death . She wiped at her face frantically, trying to hide  her tears . 

“Good morning, Arthur,” she’d sniffed.

“Mrs. Marston,” he’d said, and his voice was soft and uncertain. He hesitated before coming to sit next to her. “I’m sorry. You know, if you – if you ain’t happy like this, all you gotta do is say so. That cabin’s still up there in the hills, I can go. John’s got some idiot idea that he’ll pick you all up and go if you ain’t happy with me bein’ here, but that – that ain’t gonna happen. If you don’t want me here, I’ll just move myself out.” 

“Shut up, you idiot man,” Abigail had said, brought to tears again. She set the coffee down and turned and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, and after hesitating he had embraced her. “My whole life, I never thought I’d be sittin’ in a room I could call _mine_. I never knew a single good man until I met John, and now I got two. You saved his life, and you did all this for us, and you’re sittin’ here talkin’ like I don’t want you around. If you leave here I’ll track you down and beat the sense back in to you myself, I swear. Don’t you _dare_.”

Arthur had nodded and squeezed, and Abigail had pressed her eyes against his shirt collar to dry them. She took a deep and shaking breath and then stood.

“I’ll get you coffee. Won’t make you stomach through any of my cookin’, if you don’t mind waiting for John to get up.”

“Your cookin’s just fine, Mrs. Marston.”

“You are a _bad_ liar,” Abigail laughed. “If you don’t start callin’ me Abigail I’m gonna start takin’ offense.”

“Alright, Abigail.”

“And you quit this sleepin’ outside business. You got a bed inside, you oughta use it. Hell, you got two to pick from. John’s startin’ to get an attitude about you not bein’ around, last thing I need is another child throwin’ a tantrum. One’s hard enough to handle as it is.”

“Yes ma’am.”

Abigail wiped her eyes dry with her sleeve again and then leaned down to kiss Arthur’s temple, letting her hand linger on his jaw before going off to the kitchen. That night, she and John found him hesitating at the door to his room, and she’d taken him by the hand and turned him around until he was following her into their bedroom. She’d found herself falling asleep between the two of them, with John pressed tight behind her back and his arm stretched over her to rest on Arthur’s stomach, and Arthur’s chest under her cheek. The steady rise and fall of his chest was betrayed by a rapid heartbeat, which stuttered faster she passed her fingers over the fresh and puckered scar on his side left behind by Micah’s knife. When she heard John snoring lightly, she whispered  _thank you_ and received no response beyond Arthur’s hand moving to grip hers.  She imagined John sitting up with him while he was injured, on the verge of death, waiting for him to wake up, and wished she’d been there too. 

Arthur spent his nights with them more often than not now, and he didn’t offer to leave anymore, and for the most part she didn’t find herself crying in the living room before dawn. But now, listening to them laughing like idiots and rolling around in the mud, the flood of emotion hit her as her head hit Arthur’s chest. She couldn’t stop it, or feel it coming. A sob pried itself out from her, and she clutched his muddy shirt and pulled herself close to try and hide it. Not that she was successful – she knew he’d heard from the way his arm tightened, although he didn’t point it out. 

“Fools,” she said, shoving away and wiping at her face to clear it of the mud it had picked up from Arthur’s clothes. She tried to turn her crying into laughter. “Out here fightin’ like children, gonna track mud all over my house-” 

John came up from behind her, and wrapped his arms tightly around her waist, leaning to kiss her cheek. She screamed and swatted at him, surprised and laughing. “Filthy man, get your hands offa me!”

“Like it makes a difference now, woman, you’re already muddy.”

A bigail shrieked again as she felt her legs go out from under her, and suddenly she was in John’s arms. The struggle she put up was mostly for show, yelling at Arthur to help her as John carried her towards the entrance to the wash room,  while John talked over her about how if she was so adamant they were all clean, she could be the first one in the bath . Arthur only laughed and followed, dog trailing at his heels. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This stupid story was extremely difficult for me to wrap up, so hopefully this ending wasn't too underwhelming! If you missed it, I posted Chapter 7 immediately before this one. 
> 
> I may write a few more shorts that either pad this plot, or follow it up, but if I do will probably just lump them into a series. I do have some other things for this fandom I'd like to write. Thanks again to everybody for reading!


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